


The Odyssey of Emily Taylor-Moore

by theDeadTree



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Modern Girl in Thedas, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 72,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: Emily Taylor-Moore somehow manages to stumble her way into Thedas - with absolutely no explanation for how or why she's there, nor any clues on how to get back. The only thing she can do is not draw any attention to herself and learn to survive in a world already ravaged by Blight and war - but even that simple task is proving far more difficult than she ever realised.And then, of course, the Conclave explodes and the skies themselves split open and demons start pouring through the shattered Veil...You know. Just in case it was starting to seem a little too easy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be totally honest here - I actually love the whole 'modern girl in Thedas' thing and I'm writing this because I'm a self-indulgent piece of trash. Also I'm a sucker for introspection and character studies, which this is, first and foremost. If you were looking for something more in the vein of fanservice, this isn't it. 
> 
> ...enjoy!

Alexander Trevelyan must have some pretty damn amazing resolve, I thought as I furiously held down the attack key and watched him spin his staff in graceful, fluid arcs despite the fact that he was cutting through a seemingly never ending onslaught of Qunari soldiers and the Anchor was building up energy at an alarmingly fast rate. It was all so quick and so stressful and I knew that if I didn’t release that energy in the next five seconds, it was going to explode anyway and damage my character and his party.

Which, obviously, was bad.

The entire situation was bad, and it was only getting worse every time I progressed through one of the waiting eluvians and ended up walking straight into yet another horde of homicidal Qunari.

“God _dammit_ Solas,” I hissed as yet more Qunari surrounded my poor Inquisitor and I mashed the key that would let the Anchor explode semi-safely. “Attack the Qunari, why don’t you, drag the Inquisition into it, _why don’t you…”_

That cheating, lying, manipulative, Flemeth-killing _piss bag._ Oh, he couldn’t be an all-powerful elven god mage when he was actually on my team. Of course not. But the _second_ he racks off, _then_ he’s some kind of unstoppable whirlwind of death that can kill _Flemeth_ and control spirits and turn Qunari to stone or whatever other bullshit he has up his sleeves.

Do I even _want_ to hear what the egghead has to say in his defence? Am I going to expend all this effort fighting through a seemingly endless ocean of Qunari soldiers only for my beloved Inquisitor to _die?_

No.

No, he can’t die.

Dammit BioWare, if the Inquisitor dies… _if Solas kills him…_ if this is just the Mass Effect 3 ending all over again…

Happy thoughts, Emily. Think happy thoughts.

This is why I shouldn’t play RPGs. I always get so invested in my character.

“Hang in there Alex,” I urged as he took a hit and his health dropped slightly. “Come on buddy. You can do it. For Josephine.”

I hated the way he shouted in pain every time I released the built up focus. Every time he was thrown backwards from the force of it. I’d poured hours of love and dedication into his campaign. He was my canon Inquisitor. The first Inquisitor I’d finished the main game with. It distressed me to see him in so much pain. It distressed me to think that he might die. That last Winter Palace cut scene had basically screamed that much at me.

 _I don’t want to die;_ he’d murmured in one of the most heartbreaking scenes in the game.

 _He’s going to die,_ everything about the DLC whispered to me. Tauntingly. Like an asshole. Because it is an asshole. And whoever wrote this sequence is probably an asshole, too. Asshole DLC. Trespasser, the asshole DLC made by assholes, for the emotional torment of the nice folk who are just here to enjoy a good videogame.

Like, oh, that’s a nice character you’ve invested so much in. Would be a shame if something were to… _happen._

Happy thoughts.

If I’d known Trespasser was going to be this stressful, I would’ve had second thoughts about buying it. Or at least paused to consider it for a few minutes before inevitably buying it anyway, because one can never have enough Dragon Age in their life.

These Qunari have too much health.

“Die _faster,_ damn you.”

 _Way_ too much health.

I discharged the Anchor again.

Alexander gave a startled shout as he was thrown off his feet from the sheer force of the energy the Anchor was putting out now.

Happy, _happy thoughts._

“Should’ve been a Knight-Enchanter,” I muttered as the Qunari came a little too close for comfort for my squishy mage who, rather than learn how to create a cool magical sword that does a ridiculous amount of damage, instead decided to train in the art of raising corpses because it just seemed like the most in-character specialisation for Alex and hell, it was the closest the game would let me get to blood magic.

Gross. And effective!

Still could’ve done with a magic sword, though.

There was a knock at the door.

I jumped in surprise and rushed to pause the game before spinning around in my chair to find Chloe standing in the doorway, her arms folded and eyebrows raised.

“We have no food in the house,” she told me flatly. “Literally. None. We have nothing.”

I sighed and raked my hand through my hair. “You were working. I can’t go grocery shopping without the car.”

“And now?”

“I’m…” I glanced back at the computer screen, at Alexander Trevelyan’s tense, probably final moments that were frozen in place.

Chloe’s eyebrow arched even higher, if that was possible.

“You’re…?” she prompted.

I sighed. “Ignoring life in the vain hope it’ll go away.”

She smiled crookedly. “Welcome to being an adult, Emily.”

“Boo. I want a refund.”

She ignored that. “Also, the water bill arrived today.”

“Oh. Right. I just need to check my bank account before I pay it.”

“No rush,” she said with a small shrug, before growing pensive. “This month’s internet bill come yet?”

“Paid. Don’t worry.”

She watched me critically for a moment. “You don’t have to pay for everything, you know.”

I glanced away. “It’s only fair. You have a job and contribute to society. I sit and play videogames and use the welfare payments I leech off hard working taxpayers to pay bills. Even trade.”

There was a small frown playing on her lips now – she’s never liked it when I say things like that, even when it’s in jest rather than me having a mental breakdown over what a useless piece of shit I am. It has long since been determined that I’m too much of a nervous, depressed wreck to actually hold down any sort of employment. The government seems to have accepted that for now. I just have to focus on learning how to function better.

Or at all.

Three years since I left school and already I’ve completely lost control of my life.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I also really don’t want to cook tonight.”

And I say it like this doesn’t happen almost _every_ night.

I live to make things complicated, apparently.

Chloe took my reluctance to do anything useful in her stride, however.

“Takeaway?” she suggested dryly.

“Oh god _yes.”_

She shook her head slightly. “But seriously, one day we’re going to improve your diet. One day _soon.”_

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She gave me a long look before giving me one last small smile and disappearing down the hallway, leaving me to sit there and stew over how much of a waste of space I am.

Slowly, I spun back around to face my computer, and glanced over the tense battle scene that I’d paused right in the middle of. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like playing anymore. I didn’t feel like anything. All I wanted to do was curl up on my bed and hate myself for forcing me and all my idiot problems on my sister. She says she’s fine with it, that it’s not my fault and she wants to help me get to a place where I can live on my own. Sometimes I believe her. Other times I look at her and I’m terrified that she hates me.

We’ve had that conversation so many times. Nothing ever changes. I never feel any better. I keep thinking I need to go live with our parents, but every time I get close to doing it I remember that it’s just not a viable option, for anyone. Me _least_ of all.

Seems like my whole family is caught in this weird state of limbo at the moment. And I can’t rid myself of the feeling that maybe it wouldn’t be like this if I wasn’t here to be a spanner in the works. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I just… sometimes, I feel like people would be better off without me.

Which is maybe why I spend all my spare time intent on escaping reality. Because somehow I find the high stakes battles that mean life or death for nations or indeed, entire _worlds_ less stressful than the small, dull decisions of real, actual life.

I suppose failure isn’t really an option in videogames. If you die, then you’re given a game over screen and get warped back to your last save point, or wherever. You don’t get that security in real life. You also don’t get magic, or dragons, or non-human humanoids in real life. In real life, getting into a relationship is a little harder than choosing all the flirt dialogues and doing whatever that person’s romance quest is. Real life is complicated. Videogames are straightforward, easy.

All the more reason to bury myself in them, I suppose. At least in Thedas I can pretend to be a dashing and heroic mage who saved the world from disaster too many times to count and is _literally dying-_

Okay. Enough torturing myself over a character in a videogame.

Like it’s even possible to get my naturally obsessive brain to stop obsessing.

I let out a huge sigh, staring mindlessly at the computer screen, before rolling my shoulders back, trying to work out what exactly my game plan for this particular bit of combat was. I’m not naturally a tactics person. I play on the easier settings because I enjoy the magical pyrotechnics more than trying to think carefully through each and every action. Thing was, Trespasser was making me think regardless. I may as well try to summon my inner tactician so I can at least get out of this without using every health potion I have in my possession.

If my Inquisitor must die, I want to make sure he goes out as an unequivocal badass. Maybe he’ll go out, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that he’s taking the entire Antaam with him. And if I’m really, _really,_ unbelievably lucky; Solas too.

“Okay Alex,” I murmured. “Let’s go out with a bang, shall we?”


	2. This Is The Way The World Ends

It was cold. Too cold. Cold and _wet._

I shivered violently and curled in on myself, only to find that made me even less comfortable than before – if that was even possible. It didn’t make me feel any warmer, either. Another shiver racked my body before I finally managed to force my eyes open, only to find myself staring at some rocks that were, like everything around them, blanketed with a hefty amount of snow.

Slowly, I forced myself up into a sitting position, gazing around aimlessly at my surroundings, trying to make sense of them. I was sitting in the snow in what looked like a kind of alpine forest in the middle of winter. A very cold winter. A very cold, very _snowy_ winter. It doesn’t usually snow where I live. It certainly doesn’t come down in quantities quite like _this._

I- …I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. And right now, I’m not even sure that matters.

For too long, I just sat there, staring aimlessly into space, all while shivering violently. Automatically, I grabbed the folds of my cloak and pulled it tighter around myself in some vain attempt to better shield myself from the cold before making a valiant attempt to stagger to my feet. And it was an incredibly valiant attempt – at least until I found myself accidentally stepping on the hem of my cloak and immediately getting sent straight back to the ground, falling hard on my ass.

A surprised and mildly pained gasp escaped my lips as I fell, extremely undignified, back onto the snow. And of course it _then_ I realised that there was something incredibly wrong with this whole situation. Because somehow, I didn’t get that from literally waking up somewhere I don’t recognise in a part of the world that looks completely alien to me.

Slowly, I glanced down at my clothes, _acutely_ aware that this medieval dress and cloak combo was _not_ the shirt and jeans I’d been wearing what felt like thirty seconds ago.

That’s… a thing.

A _completely explainable_ thing that has a perfectly sensible and rational reason behind it, surely.

Don’t think about it too much.

Rather than dwell on the growing insanity of whatever was happening, I elected to try to get up again – this time carefully gathering up the cloak so I wouldn’t trip on it. Cloaks; great for looking cool and medieval, not too good when you’re a clumsy mess of a human being who is not used to wearing floor-length anything.

At least the boots are sturdy, I guess?

What ever happened to _not thinking about it,_ Emily?

Just move forward. You can do that. Move. _Forward._

So I did. I moved forward, the snow crunching beneath my boots as I tried to navigate my way through the trees in the vague hope of somehow finding civilisation. I knew that realistically, the chances of that were slim and I was more than likely going to die of hypothermia before finding any kind of salvation. Maybe I was better off if I just gave up and stayed put, allowing myself to freeze to death in the snow.

That’s rather morbid.

I’m surprised I don’t care more.

My boot hit a small rock and it skittered away from me, along what looked like it could conceivably be a path. I halted, staring at the apparent path that had been scraped clean of snow, revealing the dirt and rocks underneath. I naturally followed it, seeing no better option. It was probably nothing more than the frequently-trodden path of the local wildlife, whatever that was. But the further along I got, the less it looked like a random trail and the more it started to look like something almost akin to a _road._

And just like that, I was running.

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing I could’ve done. There were no signs, and I had no way of knowing if I was even headed in the right direction. If there _was_ a right direction to go in.

But roads have to eventually lead somewhere. That’s how roads work, after all.

I slowed to a halt, doubling over, my chest heaving as my woefully unfit body struggled to cope with the fact that I’d just made it run for maybe a hundred metres. I swallowed and gasped desperately for air, annoyed at just how much of an effort it was for me to even remain standing.

Just catch my breath. Then keep moving. Not so hard. Right? That’s not so hard. I can do this.

After what seemed like an eternity, I straightened, only to find myself facing a tall, imposing wall comprised entirely of what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of tree trunks. I blinked several times in confusion, wondering how long that had been there without me noticing, somehow. It was clearly man-made, but I had no way of knowing if it meant actual civilisation or some old, abandoned building no one used anymore.

I’d never seen a fence built quite like that.

My eyes travelled upwards, up the wall and beyond it, where I noticed a faint dark wisp of… something, just drifting lazily through the air.

Smoke, I realised.

Smoke, which means fire.

Fire, which means _civilisation._

Oh thank god. Thank you, _thank you God._

Figuring the road would eventually lead me to the other side of the wall, I followed along it, continuously glancing at the towering wooden fortifications, anxious to get somewhere freezing to death wasn’t an immediate concern. And if they could explain where the hell I am or how I got here or even happened to have a phone, then all the better. Then maybe I can call Chloe and begin the long and arduous process of trying to piece together my movements while I blacked out.

Which appears to be… wind up somewhere completely unrecognisable?

It wasn’t long before I was met with a small gateway through the tall wooden fortifications. Slowly, cautiously, I sidled my way through it, squinting around suspiciously, not quite sure what to find.

As it turned out, it was a village.

I couldn’t think of any better way to describe it. It was a relatively small, weirdly medieval-looking village nestled in the mountains that seemed to be full to the brim with people; none of which paid any attention to me as I stumbled through the snow, making a beeline for the nearest fire I could see. Of which there were quite a few.

Everything about this place; it was eerily familiar, though I couldn’t discern why. I wasn’t really in the best position for thinking, in any case. I was too focused on how close I was to freezing to death.

I’m at least ninety-nine percent certain I’ve never been here before.

And _yet…_

I glanced around once more, eyes narrowing as I couldn’t rid myself of the distinct impression that I know this place. That I’ve been here before. There’s something so vaguely familiar about it.

Maybe?

I can’t tell anymore.

Ah, this is going to bother me now.

I don’t know. It’s some dinky little mountain village that looks like it’s just jumped straight out of the dark ages, filled to the brim with people who obviously take their cosplay or LARPing or whatever it is _very_ seriously. Edgily, I glanced down, at my own outfit I don’t remember changing into that fit in with my surroundings seamlessly.

Maybe it’s a cult. Maybe I’ve accidentally joined a cult.

I glanced around at the people going about their normal business once more. It didn’t _seem_ like a cult. It seemed like some merry little storybook village – nice people, picturesque setting, cute little log cabins… none of it screams ‘insane cultists’ to me.

One man passed by, not paying any attention to me as I gawked at him, something about him, about his clothes, striking some familiar chord in my memory.

I must know this place. Everything seems far too familiar for me to have never been here before.

But that’s just it – I _haven’t_ been here before.

Have I?

It was then it finally hit me.

Oh god.

Oh _shit._

I do know this place. I know it surprisingly well; I’m shocked I didn’t recognise it sooner.

Haven.

It’s Haven.

I’m… in a videogame. Either I’m having an _extremely_ vivid dream, or I’m actually _in a videogame world._

That’s it. I’m done. I am so done with this. With all of this. I don’t even know what ‘this’ even is, but I’m done with it. This is insane and stupid and nonsensical and god _dammit,_ it’s so _real._

Immediately, I looked down at my hands, then at the fire in front of me. I could feel its warmth. Smell the smoke. Hear the crowds of people going about their daily business. It was real. It all felt so _real._

 _Is_ it real? How do I tell? Is it even possible? Can you recognise a dream when you’re in one? Do they always feel so real? Am I just going _crazy?_

…how?

 _How_ did I _get_ here?

Edgily, I glanced up at the mountains that surrounded the village, searching for what I knew would be the final nail in the coffin of my sanity.

Instead, I was greeted with nothing but clear skies as far as the eye could see.

For so long, I stared aimlessly at where I estimated the Temple of Sacred Ashes would be, noticing the distinct lack of a giant glowing green demon-spewing sky-hole. Which, to anyone familiar with the plot of the third _Dragon Age_ game, means one of two things.

First, it’s after the Breach was sealed and Haven was attacked. Since Haven is still here, still very much intact, and not in the way that someone rebuilt it after it got stomped because there’s no aurora borealis-style scar in the sky where the Breach should be, that’s out.

Second, and far more likely, the Conclave and the cataclysmic explosion that decimates the Temple of Sacred Ashes and kills everyone inside save for the player character, is yet to happen.

I glanced around edgily, unable to stop myself from wondering which of these people are going to be there when it happens. Wondering if I should warn people of the impending disaster.

And immediately get mocked, or, (and this is a hell of a lot more likely) imprisoned and interrogated over having fore-knowledge of a devastating terrorist attack. And I don’t want to explain how or why I know these things to these people. That’ll lead into me pretending I can predict the future or something similar and I’ve read enough fanfiction to know that can _only_ go badly.

Not to mention, stopping the Conclave from happening could royally screw up the timeline, and I’ve watched enough shows like _Doctor Who_ to know that, no matter how tempting it can be, messing with the timeline will create paradoxes and will inevitably end in the universe eating itself.

So. Condemn hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of innocent people to death it is.

And already this is about a million times less fun than what I imagined.

 _It’s a dream,_ I reminded myself firmly. _You’re having a dream, about a videogame. No one is actually being killed. Calm down._

I mean, that’s what it must be, right?

Oh god, what if I’m wrong? What if it _isn’t_ a dream? What if this is real? What if it’s _all_ real? What if thousands of people really are going to die? If I do nothing, if I don’t try to stop it, doesn’t that make me partially responsible? _Isn’t that kind of exactly what I murdered Anders over in the previous game?_

I should say something.

I need to warn people.

Just… without incriminating myself. Somehow.

And just hope the universe doesn’t eat itself due to the resulting paradox? Face it, Emily; _there’s nothing you can do._

Okay. Okay, okay, _okay._

This is fine. I can do this. I just need a plan. A good plan. One that will hopefully avoid any and all instances in which I die a horrible death. Not so hard. That isn’t so hard, right?

…oh god, I’m going to die. I’m going to die so quickly.

No, wait, calm down. Think of the bright side! I made it to Haven without freezing to death. I worked out I was in Thedas – even though I _shouldn’t_ be because it’s a goddamn _videogame_ – before I spoke to anyone, so no one thinks I’m crazy. I’ve already played through the entire game, everything that’s available _to_ play save for that last part of Trespasser (not so bad, I know Solas is Fen’Harel, what more is there?) and that doesn’t happen until two years after the main game’s campaign. I don’t know anything about the world state, but it can’t be that hard to work out. Someone’s bound to mention what happened to the Warden or who Hawke was at some point; and the Herald has to show up sooner or later. That depends on how long until the Conclave explosion. Then I have to wait and see who they bring down from the mountain.

I can do this. I can survive in a medieval fantasy land with no martial training or survival skills.

Yeah. Sure. Easy. I couldn’t even survive on my own in the _real_ world; how can I possibly expect to last in a place like _this?_ I have this sneaking suspicion that there’s slightly more to learning swordplay, or archery, or dual wielding, or magic than what a videogame would have you believe.

Not to mention, I’m pretty sure magic is out of the picture for me.

So where does that leave me?

 _Plan, Emily,_ I scolded myself. General plan first, annoying details about said plan later.

Well, start with the obvious; learn how to survive here as quickly as possible. Come up with a reasonably plausible cover story as quickly as possible too. Don’t draw Leliana’s attention no matter what, because then she’ll investigate and she _will_ find all the holes and inconsistencies in your story that will just end _so_ badly for everyone. Finally – and this is the most important part – stay the hell _out_ of the main plot and well _away_ from any and all of the main characters unless circumstances absolutely will not allow.

There. Simple enough.

I glanced edgily up at the sky again.

All those people, they’re all still there. All still alive. I wonder how much time is left. I wonder if it’s possible to warn them, to get them all out in time-

 _The universe,_ I reminded myself sternly. _Eating itself._

If this is real, if this is really real, what’s stopping it from going beyond the confines of the game? What if the survivor isn’t Trevelyan, or Cadash, or Lavellan, or Adaar? What if there _isn’t_ a survivor? What if no one charges into that room and Corypheus is never interrupted and manages to bestow the Anchor on himself? What if the world has already ended?

Maybe-

No.

But-

_No._

I-

Stop thinking.

But… all those people…

_Dammit._

“Excuse me!” I had to stop myself from outright screaming at a passing man in what I assumed was the uniform of a Fereldan soldier.

He stopped just long enough for me to reach him, clearly wanting nothing to do with me but knowing I probably wouldn’t leave him alone until he addressed me.

 _Smart man,_ I thought dully. Not that it would help him much now.

“Excuse me,” I repeated breathlessly. “Sorry, but the Conclave-”

He let out a loud, thoroughly irritated sigh and gestured vaguely in what I assumed was the direction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“Don’t worry about it – it’s all proceedings and speeches for the first few days. You haven’t missed anything important.”

“You don’t-”

I was cut off by an explosive _crack_ that reverberated throughout the mountains, and was immediately followed by what could only be described as an earth-shatteringly loud _boom._ I whirled around just in time to see a violent blast of almost blinding sickly green light shoot up towards the sky.

No.

God, _no._

Not now.

Please, God, not _now!_

For a moment, for one agonisingly long moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, after what felt like an eternity, there was a pulse, a small shock wave or something, I don’t know, that advanced towards the village, sending the top layer of snow flying up as it breezed past. For a moment, the sky itself seemed to shudder, and then, and _then-_

Then the heavens opened up. Quite literally. And demons began to pour from the ensuing hole like blood from a wound, bolts of that same bright, sickly green light streaking across the sky as screams erupted and chaos began to rain down from above.

No, no, no, _no…_

I just stared. For so long, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, staring up at the ruined, shattered sky, utterly horrified as the world crumbled to pieces around me.


	3. Not With A Bang But A Whimper

I remember the first time I played _Dragon Age: Inquisition._ I remember staring with barely concealed delight and awe as the menu screen loaded for the first time and I was greeted with that beautiful music and that scene of the templars and mages walking towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I was nervous to start playing; I was still extremely new to _Dragon Age_ as a series, having not even heard of it until something like a week beforehand. I’d bought it on a whim after seeing the series mentioned somewhere on the internet. I went out of my way to look up videos of the previous two games and catch up on the general lore of the world. It was all so new and so fresh and so, _so_ exciting.

And then I’d pressed _new game._

I’d actually jumped in surprise when the temple promptly exploded with a blast of blinding green light, decimating the mountain top and sending the mages and templars fleeing for their lives before whisking me away to the character creator. It wasn’t really _scary_ per se, just sudden and unexpected.

A small jump-scare at the start menu – that’s what the opening of the Breach was to me.

Turns out, it’s a lot more terrifying in person.

Many people fled for their lives, screaming in fear about the end of the world. Those who remained were barricaded inside the village walls, in an attempt to offer some measure of protection from the seemingly constant demon incursions. Soldiers scrambled to maintain order, patrols being constantly sent out into surrounding mountains to look for survivors; with fewer and fewer coming back every time, always with stories of more and more rifts opening up, dragging more and more demons through the shattered Veil.

Needless to say, it didn’t take long for the bodies to pile up, left discarded outside the village until some Chantry sisters – who had to be among the bravest people in Thedas, surely – dared to venture outside the village walls in order to burn the bodies and give proper rites. I knew it was for a practical purpose as much as it was a tradition, but I couldn’t help but be impressed by their dedication to their faith. Say what you will about the Chantry, you don’t find that level of commitment just anywhere.

I couldn’t tell what was worse – what was happening, knowing what was yet to happen, or the fact that I was completely unable to do anything about it. All I _could_ do was sit and wait for the only person capable of closing the rifts to inevitably stumble blindly out of the Fade in the ruins of the temple.

So, I sat. And I watched. All while anxiously waiting for a saviour.

The Herald hasn’t even shown up yet and already I can’t help but feel like it really is divine intervention. And everyone else, they don’t even _know_ there’s a survivor. They don’t know there’s someone coming. They don’t know what the Anchor will allow that survivor to do. To them, this person will appear out of nowhere, miraculously having survived an explosion, the aftermath of which is threatening to destroy the entire goddamn _world,_ and _just so happen_ to be the only one to wield magic capable of fixing all the problems that have exploded across Thedas. I can’t imagine there was ever going to be another explanation. Regardless of what actually happened, it’s too big a coincidence.

I can’t say I don’t understand where they’re coming from. Coincidences have always felt a lot like God to me.

There’s already _a_ god directly involved in this mess. Why not the Maker, too?

Speaking of gods directly involved in this shit storm of a situation, the Herald wasn’t the only person I was waiting for. Even though I had absolutely no idea what to do once Solas did inevitably show his face – probably wearing his usual mask of carefully constructed serene calm. Part of me wanted to confront him, to trap him in a corner and force him to tell me what his designs on the world are. All the while the calmer, more logical part of me _screamed_ at me not to do that.

Because Solas is a mage, as well as an ancient elven apparently-not-quite-but-basically-a-god.

Because he killed Flemeth.

Because despite appearances I’m not that goddamn stupid.

Herald first, I reminded myself. Wait and see… whoever it turns out to be. And then, I don’t know, stay out of their way. But also try to silently and subtly nudge them into making the least stupid decision. Do my part to make sure whoever it is manages to live long enough to save the world.

I never did get a game over screen. I like to think that’s because of my skill, but in reality, it’s because I’m a filthy casual who plays on easy and panics and goes back to previous saves when I think I’m getting dangerously close to death. I’m also a health potion hoarder. And I stack all my points into armour and constitution. Sometimes attack, too. And then I abuse a useful little I-guess-it’s-a-glitch that gives me infinite skill points.

I’ve played this game a lot. Like, a proper scary amount. I like to think I have it down to a rhythm these days. What I get for compulsively having to romance every single possible romance option plus my obligatory asexual play-through, I suppose.

Unless it’s Dragon Age II. Then it’s Fenris, every single time. Maybe Isabela, like once. But barring that one time I went for the overtly sexy pirate; I was boring and generic and went for broody elf because I’m a boring and generic girl who plays Dragon Age. Sided with the mages and everything.

But only after I quite literally stabbed Anders in the back and watched on with a grim sense of satisfaction as he slowly bled out on the ground and died.

…he totally deserved it, _shut up._

So there’s that. Maybe I don’t make _all_ the typical, generic, popular decisions.

I don’t know why I’m rambling so much. I guess what I’m trying to get at is that _nothing_ in a real-life setting is even half as easy as it is in a videogame. It’s somehow bigger. Scarier. More real. You suddenly realise just how easily you could die at any moment when there are literally demons pouring from the sky.

Fabulous grasp of the obvious there, Emily.

I wish I had something better to do other than cower uselessly in the village while patiently waiting for the world to end.

Uneasily, I glanced up at the Breach. It was noticeably bigger now than what it was back when it first opened up. Never noticed that before. Never had any reason to. I mean, I know Cassandra _tells_ you that it’s growing in the prologue, but I was more concerned with getting the hang of the controls and acclimatising myself to the game’s feel and world to pay any real attention to the plot at that point. After all, the story wasn’t going to destroy the world and kill my player character in the prologue. I knew I was going to be fine. One way or another. The Anchor wasn’t going to kill me in the prologue.

No. Turns out it takes two extra years to do that.

I… am really going to have keep my distance from the Herald. No one wants a crazy person telling them they probably only have a few years to live when they’re busy trying to save the world.

That needs to be a rule. Be a help, not a distraction.

“Where are you?” I muttered mostly to myself, staring mindlessly out at the snow-covered fields from my perch atop a large boulder.

Waiting would be so much easier if I knew who exactly I was waiting for.

I should’ve been doing something useful, I know, but I had no skills to offer and I figured I’d blend in better if I volunteer to join the Inquisition’s fledgling infantry _after_ the Herald appears and the prologue happens. Then I’m just one more religious nut-job who wants to do right and follow Andraste by pledging myself in service to the one supposedly sent by her. Or something like that. Maybe. I don’t even know. I’m making it up as I go along. Cover stories are hard; I can never come up with good ones, and keeping track of them gets difficult.

Right now, I was running with the idea of being a pilgrim who arrived in Haven late, and that lateness was what had saved me from the Conclave explosion. One person had asked if I was a scholar when I was caught prowling around the village in search of paper and other writing supplies. Not knowing what else to say, I’d said yes.

Barely been here two days and already I can’t keep my lies straight.

I suppose that only proves what I knew already – I would not make a very good spy.

Suddenly, there was a shout, coming from the direction of the main gates. Instantly, my head snapped up and I scanned the gates as they were pulled open, revealing a small crowd of soldiers who were clustered together, obviously trying to keep _something_ from the prying eyes of the villagers.

My eyes went wide.

A tall woman with short dark hair – a woman who could _only_ be Cassandra – burst onto the scene, barking at the rapidly encroaching throng of civilians to stay back, before demanding an explanation from the soldiers. I didn’t hear their reply, as they suddenly dropped into hushed whispers. I didn’t need to hear them, regardless. I already know what they’re freaking out about; I already know how it’ll inevitably go down.

They might’ve been tightly packed together, but it didn’t take a genius to know they were holding up the unconscious form of a person.

I was desperately craning my neck in an attempt to get a better view of the Herald before I even realised what I was doing. It didn’t really matter anyway, since the soldiers were so intent on hiding whomever they were carrying from any and all prying eyes. Still, I found myself straining regardless. I was just too curious. After all, who _wouldn’t_ be? I could end up having a conversation with a _player character_ of one of my favourite games.

That prospect is just so exciting that I don’t even _care_ if I have actually gone crazy and this is all some insanely vivid delusion and in reality I’m rocking back and forth in a padded cell.

How many times have I looked at Thedas through a screen and wished I could be there? How often have I gone through all the possible dialogues with my companions and wished I could talk to them in real life? How many times have I looked over my player characters and wondered about their backgrounds, about the impact going through something like that would have on a person’s life?

Now I can find out.

How _fucking cool_ is that?

Or at least, it would be, if we were a little later in the plot to when the Herald is both awake and not under constant threat of the Anchor overwhelming them.

I watched on as they passed me, not paying me any mind as the group made a beeline for the chantry. I didn’t imagine they would. Everyone in Haven is currently staring at them. They just don’t know what I know. And the plan is to keep it that way; at least for now.

Finally, I manage to catch the briefest of glimpses at the Herald as the soldiers shifted a little, trying to realign themselves.

A thoroughly worn green coat.

A mess of dark brown hair, matted with dried blood.

A young man, being dragged roughly through the snow, while his hand lashed out in a bright, harsh light and he himself showed absolutely no signs of waking.

I swallowed nervously, only to choke on my own saliva, realising why all these little titbits kept striking the same familiar chord in my memory.

I know who that is.

I know _exactly_ who that is.

Turns out, I’m not just trapped in the world of Thedas during the events of _Inquisition_ – I’m trapped in my _own specific play-through._ Which means it’s based off my choices. My preferences. And yes, my Inquisitor, to boot.

Because it’s him.

It’s Alexander.


	4. Brave New World

Varric Tethras was a goddamn liar.

Which should come as a surprise to absolutely no one, but the fact remains. He’s a goddamn liar and if I hear one more person ask him for information regarding the current whereabouts of a certain Champion of Kirkwall as if they expect him to come out with anything even remotely truthful, I am going to absolutely lose my shit. So far he’d confirmed rumours that Hawke was a shapeshifter (not true), routinely feasted on dragon blood (not true), slept on a bed of bones (not true), used the Arishok’s skull as a gravy boat (not true, and probably impractical), and had spent the years since the Kirkwall Rebellion quietly hunting down and killing every slaver and bandit in the Free Marches (maybe true?).

And the confidence with which he spoke, he almost had me, someone who had pretty much lived through it just as much as he had, believing him.

He even recounted a particularly detailed and eccentric version of the Arishok fight I’m at least ninety-nine percent certain didn’t happen. Because if we’re going with how _I_ played that game… there was a lot less bravery involved and a lot _more_ running in a constant figure-eight and firing the occasional pot-shot back at the hulking Qunari leader, all while screaming and swearing violently in a particularly undignified manner.

Outlandish stories about Hawke did distract Haven’s populace from Alexander, though. So maybe it was a good thing Varric was working to keep everyone entertained and their spirits up.

Could’ve maybe done it with a few less blatant lies, though.

And if you’re wondering why I’m milling about the tavern as opposed to skulking outside the chantry like I should be, it’s because I’ve well and truly been shooed away. Because maybe lurking as close to the Haven chantry dungeon as I could get without being somewhere I’m not supposed to and generally being really suspicious wasn’t the smartest way to go about things.

I think Leliana is worried I’m hatching an assassination plot against their prisoner. Which is bad for me. She hasn’t approached me yet, but I know she’s watching. I know she’s curious.

I should’ve stayed away; kept my head down and continued to work on blending in. Instead, my goddamn curiosity got the better of me and now I had to restrict myself to the tavern and other highly populated areas of the village. Vanish into the crowd long enough for the Nightingale to turn her attention elsewhere; like the Breach. Like the one person in the world capable of closing it, who they’ll eventually coerce into helping them and joining the Inquisition. And then they’ll make him _run_ the damn thing.

Poor Alex can’t catch a break and he hasn’t even endured the prologue yet.

There are no words for how disconcerting it is to come across a person – a real, live, actual _breathing person_ who you distinctly remember spending hours in a character creator with, agonising over every single miniscule detail of their face. All I wanted to do was just sit there and stare at him, studying his face, carefully comparing him to the version of him I’d spent a disproportionate number of hours playing as. I mean, I _couldn’t,_ obviously, because he was still passed out in a cell beneath the chantry and access down there was restricted to Leliana, Cassandra, Solas, and the apothecary.

And the half dozen guards assigned to keep any of the locals from trying to assassinate him in his sleep, I guess. Them too.  

I’m not the only one Leliana’s watching out of fear of attempted assassinations.

I kept to my dark and brooding corner, where I glanced over the few notes I’d scrawled down on all the scraps of parchment I’d managed to scrounge up. The parchment itself was marred with dark smudges of ink, some of the words were illegible thanks to further ink stains. I was still getting used to the idea of quills and ink.

Quills and ink, as it happens, were not invented with the left-handed in mind. I’ve had to wash my hands something like seventeen times in just one day. That stuff just doesn’t ever want to come out.

Most of my vague scrawling were still decipherable, though. It was pretty much just notes, sketches of elfroot to make it easier to recognise – figured I should horde all the medicinal plants I can find – notes on every major character in the game that I’ve seen in Haven, sketches of various types of demons, their typical attack patterns and what they were individually capable of, as well as some of the more heinous rumours regarding Alex I’d heard over the past couple of days.

I don’t know why I decided to keep track all the horrible things people were capable of saying; I think I was just particularly invested in Alex and I cared a great deal about what people thought of him.

Because, in a weird way I don’t really want to think about in too much detail, he’s _me._ He’s my avatar into this insane sort religious adventure with heavy religious themes (good job, BioWare, I always did love a good religious theme that gets me all up in an existential crisis) and I guess that makes him me.

Except he’s completely different from me.

Because for starters, he’s a man. And a mage. And he actually _belongs_ here. At least he’s human, I suppose? He could’ve been non-human. Could’ve been an elf, I have a few elves. I like elves. Not sure how I’d go with getting on with a Dalish, though. The fact remains.

 _Yes,_ okay, elves are _boring_ and _cliché_ and you’re boring and cliché for liking elves and maybe I’m getting more than a _little_ side tracked defending every single choice and preference in a game I’ve made ever, but…

…where was I going with this again?

The world currently has a rather low opinion of my Inquisitor – _Herald,_ he’s the _Herald,_ and right now he’s not even _that_ yet – and it makes me sad and defensive.

And while I’m busy being preoccupied with the world’s opinions of a mage I have a huge emotional attachment to, the world continued to end.

Ugh, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I have literally no idea.

Sooner or later someone is going to find me out, whether it’s Leliana noticing the inconsistences with my story or Solas doing a… weird… Fade… _thing_ that somehow outs me, somehow, or me getting drunk despite how much of a bad idea that is and casually announcing to the whole damn world that I’m not from here and I know what’s going to happen. Roughly. Sort of. A bit.

(Corypheus did it)

(The mages _and_ templars are both equally screwed, pick one)

(Haven will get stomped by Corypheus and an army of either Venatori or Red Templars plus the Not-An-Archdemon; and there’s nothing you can do about it)

(Varric Tethras is a _goddamn liar_ who knows _precisely_ where Hawke is and the only reason I’m not outing him about it right now is the fact that it will irrevocably screw it all up and Varric and Hawke’s friendship is just _too cute_ and I can only respect that kind of insanity-level loyalty)

(The Wardens are doing blood magic at Adamant; maybe Hawke dies, maybe Alistair, maybe Loghain, or maybe Stroud; the Not-An-Archdemon is still a nuisance)

(Grand Duchess Florianne is kind of crazy, and a bitch… and the assassin, I guess)

(The Temple of Mythal is full of elfy elves being the elfiest elves who have ever been elfy elves)

(Speaking of Mythal, she’s Flemeth)

(The Not-An-Archdemon is, surprise, _not an Archdemon)_

(Turns out that the shifty mage has ulterior motives, what a shock, this simply _never_ happens… *cough* _Morrigan_ *cough* _Anders_ *cough*)

(Ameridan isn’t dead, yet, and incidentally, _neither is the magic Avvar god-dragon)_

(Titans are a thing)

(Teagan is a jerk now)

(Looks like the Anchor is still trying to kill you, funny how we never noticed that before)

What’s the bet you get to the end of Trespasser and you find Solas and he just smiles sheepishly after you hurl endless abuse at him and he’s just like _‘well, funny story about that…’_

And then I punch him in the face? Maybe?

I can dream, can’t I?

Alas, no. I can’t be mean to people in videogames. Even fictional characters. I have to be everyone’s friend. I have to have ultimate approval from absolutely everybody, which means I actually became like, best friends with Solas and I just don’t think ‘punch him’ is an option when you have a highly positive relationship. I am actually incapable of being mean, and that quickly translated to Alexander’s own moral compass and his way of running the Inquisition.

Alexander, who’s unconscious and slowly dying in a cell beneath the chantry. Alexander, who has everyone in Haven muttering under their breath about how it’s a sin to the Maker to let him live when no such mercy was granted to the Divine. Alexander, who _did not explode the Conclave,_ and yet will be incapable of giving any kind of real defence, at least not until his probably-going-to-be-traumatic Fade-excursion during the siege on Adamant.

This is how I keep sane. Ish. Sane-ish. Mostly sane. Despite the whole insanity of the situation.

Thedas is absolutely the best and most appropriate place to endlessly muse and obsess over _Dragon Age._ I mean, if not here, where else?

I’ve been here for days and _still_ nothing has happened. Nothing beyond the end of the world, anyway.

We’re all just patiently waiting for Alexander to regain consciousness, I guess. And then I’ll have to wait even longer for him to recover from the events of the prologue and for Cassandra to formally declare the Inquisition and effectively place the entire southern half of Thedas under martial law.

And until that happens, I’m just going to rage to myself about nothing. Because it passes the time. And I can’t talk to people, certainly not any major characters.

Which is why I’m sitting in the tavern, silently seething in a corner while Varric churns out his usual bullshit to all the hangers-on. Eventually Cassandra will come in and drag him out in the mountains to help her deal with the continuing demon incursions, because that’s what she does. I think she needs to busy herself with killing things so she doesn’t end up killing Alexander in his sleep.

Cassandra never used to scare me. Now when she comes striding into the room, covered in blood, standing at an intimidating six feet and wielding a real, actual longsword, there’s nothing that terrifies me more.

 _Think of the Swords & Shields quest,_ I chanted to myself every time I saw her. _Think of Swords & Shields. She secretly likes bad erotica. She’d totally be a Fifty Shades fan in the real world. Nothing intimidating about that._

Edgily, I glanced back at Varric, hoping against hope that he has enough integrity as a writer to at least hold his less-than-stellar erotica to a higher standard than that.

And yeah, I have to think about this stuff. For the sake of my sanity. And the fact if there’s one thing I know right now, it’s that a whole lot of nothing but demons is going to be happening for the next few days.

So we wait.

And wait.

And _wait._

Wait for the world to end. Wait for a saviour to come in and pick up the pieces. Wait for a new order to be forged in the fires of war. And we wait for a brave new world to replace what once was.


	5. Stranger In A Strange Land

I didn’t realise the prologue was even happening until there was a thunderous _crack_ that was so loud it caused me to jump in surprise and accidentally fall out of bed. By the time I managed to stumble out of the cabin I’d taken up residence in, I was greeted with a strange sense of déjà vu as I witnessed soldiers carry an unconscious Alexander through Haven once again.

Then rumours about people seeing a woman behind him as he fell from the Fade began to circulate, and suddenly he wasn’t a criminal anymore, he was a divine saviour. Suddenly, there was a massive tonal shift in Haven – the air of doom and despair began to be broken up by the thinnest ray of hope. Maybe the world wasn’t over. Maybe there was still a chance at fixing this. Maybe the Maker still cared about this world enough to send someone to save it.

Maybe an unconscious mage with a magical scar that allows him to do something no one else is capable of is the Herald of Andraste.

It wasn’t until four days after did anything even vaguely noteworthy happen.

“You there!” The Commander barked harshly in my direction from across the makeshift training yard. “There’s a _shield_ in your hand – _block_ with it! If this man were your enemy, you’d be _dead.”_

I huffed in frustration and lifted the shield that should not have been as heavy as it was up, trying and largely failing to conceal my disappointment over how spectacularly badly I was doing at picking up swordplay. I also never anticipated that particular line of Cullen’s ever being directed _me,_ even though the sun was going down and the day’s training probably wasn’t going to last much more than a few more minutes. My opponent, who was in fact a rather kindly man in his thirties who’d introduced himself to me seconds earlier as Vance, waited patiently for me to reassert myself.

“You’re new to this,” he observed quietly in a gruff Fereldan accent (basically English, right? Basically, an English accent) as I struggled to properly lift just the longsword I’d been given, let alone the shield on top of that.

I let out a mildly breathless, somewhat hysterical chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”

He flashed me a reassuring smile. “Maybe it’d be worth finding someone to help you train privately.”

It was a good suggestion, even if I had no idea who to ask. Immediately, my eyes slid to Vance himself, despite the fact that he was already a seasoned soldier and thus was needed for patrols and generally had to help with clearing out any remaining demons that weren’t killed when Alexander got himself dragged up the mountain and had to close all the rifts.

And speaking of Alexander…

I could see him, lurking in the background, leaning against the tall wooden barricades that surrounded Haven, watching the soldiers train warily, like he was in half a mind to bolt at any given moment.

And he was there.

He was _just there._ Standing there. In the flesh. Real. Or, as real as anyone else in this insane, nonsensical delusion I’d gotten all caught up in for reasons unknown. I assume I had some kind of psychotic break or something like that. Who even knows. It must’ve one hell of a mental breakdown to cause delusions this vividly real, though. Pity I don’t remember it.

I don’t do things by halves. When I get into _Dragon Age,_ I get _obsessively_ into it, to the point of playing it for literally _over fifteen-hundred hours._ And when I snap and completely lose my mind, you can bet your sweet ass I do absolutely lose my goddamn mind in the most spectacular of fashions.

_Smack._

Vance’s shield barrelled right into me with an impressive amount of sheer force, knocking me right off my feet. I fell back onto the snow, landing hard on the ground, groaning a little in pain as I simply lay there, largely at a loss. I mean, it wasn’t a huge surprise that I was mostly rubbish at this; I’m unfit, weak, largely unmotivated, not terribly brave or courageous and generally the completely opposite of your typical sword-wielding-fantasy-badass-Aragorn-expy-character. What I _don’t_ understand is how _anyone_ has the patience to get good at this.

Maybe it’s because, in Thedas, you kind of _have_ to be good at combat. Attacks by bandits and mercenaries and raiders and the like are too commonplace for anyone less than a noble to skimp on that skillset. Maybe I’ll ask if I can try archery. Learn how to be a rogue, instead of a warrior. I don’t even like playing as warriors, preferring to stay ranged. Lord knows why I’m training to be one the instant any of it becomes even slightly within the bounds of real.

Because weapons are a precious commodity in this world and they only really have swords to spare at the moment.

Oh, I wish, I _wish_ I was a mage. Like Alex, who was… – I lifted my head just enough to see – …casually chatting to Cullen. Great. Wonderful, really. He can do whatever and talk to anyone he likes without feeling intimidated because he’s a _mage_ and the _Herald of Andraste_ who is already proficient in combat and here I am on the ground like a chump having to stick out all the gruelling training and do even more gruelling training on top of that because I’m so fucking _useless._

I felt a tap on my shoulder and glanced up to see Vance offering me his hand, which I gladly took. He’s surprisingly nice, for a thirty-something Fereldan veteran. Makes me wonder what he’s doing in Haven. Perhaps he lives here. Perhaps he came, like so many others, for the Conclave. It wouldn’t have surprised me if it turned out he was a templar, or used to be one, or something to that effect. He had that _templar_ feel. Don’t ask me what that templar feel actually feels like. I don’t know. Call it very specific intuition. Or maybe there was something in the way he fought. Or perhaps he just reminded me of templars in general.

If that was true, he was quite pleasant, for a templar. I’m more used to them being, you know, _absolutely fucking bat shit axe-crazy._

Not all templars are Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard of Kirkwall, Emily.

What can I say? Dragon Age II had a profound effect on me.

Around us, the others were packing up after being dismissed by the Commander – who will henceforth be referred to as the Commander because he’s way too intimidating for me to just call him _Cullen_ at this point. Vance was doing the same, although his attention was still on me.

“I never did get your name.”

My mouth went dry, and I swallowed nervously as I tried to think. No one here has asked for my name before. I never drew enough attention for anyone to care enough.

“It’s Em…” I trailed off into silence, suddenly overcome with panic. What do I say? The truth? Does that even _work?_ Is _Emily Taylor-Moore_ even halfway fantastical enough to fit in? What do I say otherwise? How am I supposed to know? I’ve already started saying _Emily,_ what can that _possibly_ turn into?

Oh _god,_ Emily is _way_ too mundane for Thedas. I’m going to draw all the suspicion.

_Oh, that’s an odd name, Emily._

_That’s an odd accent, Emily._

_Where are from?_

_What’s your background?_

_What do you mean, you can’t say?_

And then, I’m a foreign spy and I’ll be on death row before I can blink.

Vance, evidentally, noticed how I never really finished speaking and turned to face me now, eyebrow arched curiously.

Em… _Em…_ what? _Em-how-can-I-possibly-finish-that?_

Think, think, _think…_

I forced a smile and cleared my throat uncomfortably. “Sorry. It’s Emilia.”

Close enough, right? Mildly more likely to fit in with the _Lelianas_ and the _Varrics_ and the _Solases,_ right? _Right?_

Vance, like the good-natured nice Fereldan that he is, just nodded and smiled, before extending his hand. “It’s good to meet you, Emilia.”

Gingerly, I took it. “You too.”

“Up for a drink?” he asked – which I quickly had to remind myself that here such a question is far more platonic than it seems to be in reality because it’s literally the only thing these people do for leisure – with a small, friendly smile.

Why, oh _why_ is everyone in Thedas so goddamn _nice_ to me? Shouldn’t they be kind of, I don’t know, _jerks?_ Or do the games only bother to get to know the misfits and the total assholes? Maybe Fereldans are just nice, in their own gruff, abrasive, mildly-racist-to-Orlesians, dog-loving way.

I shook my head. “Can’t. I’m on watch soon.”

 _Soon,_ she says. It’s not for at least a few hours. I just don’t feel like drinking every day I’m alive like everybody else in this crap-saccharine world. I have a more modern understanding of alcohol and what it does to the body. Hell if I’m not going to use it.

Vance nodded. “Yeah, I hear they’re putting most of the new recruits on watch duty.”

“It’s only thing we can perform reliably,” I joked, although I couldn’t keep the sad tone out of my voice. “Don’t need combat skills to see what’s on the horizon.”

He clapped my shoulder reassuringly. “Ah, don’t beat yourself up over it. Learning takes time. Honestly, you’re brave just for joining up at all.”

I’ll… take that as a compliment, and that it was not meant in a _you’re-insane-why-are-you-doing-this_ sort of way.

“Thanks, Vance.”

He nodded at me before resuming packing things up and ultimately heading back into Haven. I watched him go, looking on as he skirted around Alexander (who was now wandering aimlessly around the training yard) and disappeared through the gates into the village.

With a small sigh, I began picking up some of the things that had been left discarded by some of the less responsible recruits (it’s always the new recruits who do this, to the point it’s spurred me to clean up after them and so prevent them from giving us all a bad name) as the training yard emptied around me.

I was busy packing the assorted stuff into crates when I heard the footsteps of someone passing behind me. For a moment, I remained where I was, carefully focused on what I was doing and not wanting to draw any sort of attention to myself; not after I’d spend so long carefully keeping a low profile so I could finally throw Leliana off my scent. Quickly though, my curiosity overthrew me and I very carefully turned just enough to see the now-familiar silhouette of Alexander disappear into the woods surrounding Haven.

My eyes narrowed as I stood up, brushing the snow off my shins. I remained there for a time, waiting for him to reappear.

When he didn’t, my brow creased and I began moving after him.

“Well now,” I murmured to myself as I picked my way through the snow, “where do you think _you’re_ going?”


	6. The Importance Of Being Emilia

I don’t normally associate mages with _stealth,_ but after losing Alex within the first two seconds of following him, maybe I should start considering it.

One might ask why I’m so obsessed with the _player character,_ out of all the people in the eclectic cast of cool characters that make up the inner circle of the Inquisition. Well, there are a few reasons. One, I’m super emotionally attached to him. Like, oh my god, _so attached,_ you have no idea. Two, I _distinctly remember_ spending probably too long in the character creator obsessing over his stupidly handsome face (because I’m _vain_ and _shallow_ and I like to make characters I can appreciate the look of, so _sue me)_ and I don’t think I can accurately describe how _insane_ it is to suddenly meet someone you totally remember _creating._ Three, he’s here, so he’s real. And if he’s real, he has a backstory. A backstory I was too lazy to really come up with beyond the obvious – he’s an ex Circle mage from Ostwick. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t morbidly curious to see whatever craziness my subconscious has forced upon him to make him more real in this painfully life-like post-Emily’s-psychotic-break delusionary fantasy world.

That, and Dorian doesn’t come into it until later.

Dorian, whom I absolutely adore and will probably never talk to because I plan to avoid most, if not all, of the mages.

A plan that is going _so spectacularly well,_ considering I’m currently _literally stalking one of those mages._

I maintain that Alex doesn’t count. Because he doesn’t have to be a mage. There are options for playing as not-a-mage. I have characters who aren’t mages. Like, four different rogues (all archers, I tried so hard to dual wield but it just never happened). And one warrior, for the sake of playing that class at least once, just to prove to myself that I can do it. The rest are all mages (four. I have four mages. I have nine Inquisitors total).

I like mages. I really, _really freaking like mages._ Unless it’s Origins. Then not so much mages. And I made up for that anyway by possibly maybe romancing the romanceable mage. And kind of maybe a little perhaps having a small, tiny, insignificant, child with the reincarnated soul of an ancient draconic god with her.

Kieran’s cute, though. Even when he’s being more than a little creepy.

Safe to say my canonical Hero of Ferelden probably made some less than wise decisions. Like allowing himself to be seduced by the sexy apostate witch who is barely wearing clothes and flaunting a significant amount of sideboob at any given moment.

I live in hope that there’s some actual depth to that relationship.

…at least he’s a good(ish) father, I guess? If you casually ignore that whole nobody-knows-where-the-hell-he-is thing?

Holy _shit,_ what I am I going to do when Morrigan shows up later? Not talk to her, right? Absolutely one hundred percent do not talk to Flemeth’s daughter. Stay so, _so_ far away from that business.

Emily. Focus. On. _Alexander._

You know, the person you actually followed out here in the first place?

Oh my god I must have the shortest attention span ever. Or the longest. Depends on the subject matter, really.

God _dammit,_ what is he even _doing_ out here? Am I ever going to find him? Do I call his name? Isn’t that suspicious if I just randomly know his name? Do the people here even _know_ his full name? Is his name actually Alexander, or is he really called something else like Maxwell and he just _looks_ like Alexander? _Exactly_ like Alexander? With Alexander’s class, Alexander’s skillset, and Alexander’s personality? So what do I call him? Do I call him anything?

…Lord Trevelyan, perhaps?

_Wham._

Something slammed into my gut with a surprising amount of force, pushing me back and sending me straight to the ground, crashing onto the snow with a loud gasp.

Before I could even stop to think, I could feel cold steel pressing gently – but threateningly – against my jugular. My eyes darted up, trying to see who’d just attacked me, trying desperately to stay calm and consider these events in a logical fashion.

She says, when in reality all that happened was a flood of panic over how Corypheus _couldn’t_ be attacking Haven already; the plot has barely even started.

“Why are you here?” a horribly familiar English accent – _Marcher accent,_ he’s a _Free Marcher,_ there’s no such _thing_ as England in this place – demanded harshly. “Why did you follow me?”

Well, _shit._ He sounds exactly the same. Someone inform Harry Hadden-Paton.

How does that even work? Do I want to know how that even works? Is that a thing I should be thinking about when I have an angry Herald of Andraste holding a blade to my throat? Honestly, it makes me wonder if there’s a Mass Effect world floating around out there. It makes me wonder what would happen if a female English Inquisitor met Samantha Traynor.

The blade – which I was now realising was not a sword, but a blade bolted onto his staff – was pressed just a fraction harder against my skin, reminding me that now was not the time to get off-track.

“Gah… please don’t kill me,” I managed to choke out, struggling to breathe from all the fear that kept my lungs from working properly.

For a moment, there was a pause.

An agonisingly long pause as he seriously stopped to debate the pros and cons of murdering me right here and now. This isn’t him. This isn’t what _my_ Inquisitor; _my_ Alex would do. This isn’t _my_ playthrough, isn’t _my_ character. This is some horrifying twisted version of it in which everything is wrong. It must be. Either that, or he’s _very_ stressed out right now. Stressed to the point of seriously considering murder. I don’t want to think about how bad that would have to be. I mean, people in Thedas a quite a bit more cavalier about the whole ‘murder’ thing, but I assume that’s still got to be a lot of stress, regardless.

Then the blade disappeared, and I heard the crunching of snow as he walked away from me.

“Get back to the village,” he said as I propped myself up on my elbows. “It’s not safe out here.”

“Wait!” I called after him, just loud enough for him to stop in his tracks, although he didn’t turn to face me. Or move at all, for that matter. “Where are _you_ going?”

For an excruciatingly long time, there was silence. He just stood there, motionless, with his back facing me, saying absolutely nothing. I watched his back in silence that entire time, silently taking in everything about him – from the thick mixture of furs and leathers he wore, to the staff in his hand, to the pack on his back.

My eyes went wide as I realised just what I’d managed to stumble into.

“You’re _running?”_

Once again, he declined to answer, while I scrambled to my feet, not quite able to believe what I was seeing. This isn’t supposed to happen. This _can’t_ happen. The Inquisitor – Herald, player character, _whatever I’m supposed to call him_ – doesn’t run. The game doesn’t _let_ you. You shake Cassandra’s hand and then the Inquisition is formed and the game starts proper. You’re never once given an opportunity to run. It’s not in the script.

I can’t _believe_ this. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe he’d do this. I can’t believe he’d even try.

“You _can’t_ run!” I all but screamed at him as I staggered to my feet. “You can’t _do_ that!”

 _‘And then the Herald fucked right off and the world promptly ended’_ is _not_ canon-compliant, Alexander!

God. Why is he doing this to me? Why can’t he just quietly accept his fate like his normal game-self? Why can’t he save all his existential crises for off-screen time, like his game-self? Why can’t he just cut his hair short and shave, like his game-self?

Seriously. I am not digging the unkempt mop and scraggly beard. The whole bedraggled mage thing; it’s not a good look for him. He’s of noble birth, maybe he should put some more effort into looking like it. I mean, it worked for Hawke, but that’s just it. It’s _Hawke’s_ thing. Alex is not a scruffy Fereldan apostate, and is supposed to take greater care in his personal grooming and hygiene than that.

Is that what I’ve been reduced to now? Critiquing the way my own character looks in my own delusion?

I’m just saying, there’s a reason I gave him short hair and only the barest of facial hair (totally clean-shaven is just, no) in the game.

And this is so _not_ the point right now, because while I’m all caught up in my stupid and completely useless train of thought, Alex is just walking away.

 _Oh_ _no you don’t._

“I can’t _believe_ you!” I shouted at his retreating back, in no mood to be nice and understanding. “The world is literally on the brink of ending and you’re just going to _fuck off?_ Good luck everyone, hope that Breach thing works itself out?”

“What else am I supposed to _do?”_ he demanded furiously, whirling around as his fist slammed against the trunk of a nearby tree, flames extending out from his hand and curling away over the bark. “The entire damn _world_ thinks I was behind the Conclave!”

Ooh, magic.

I’ve never seen actual, for real magic before. Gotta say, it’s a pretty cool effect.

I tried to keep my fascination with his display to myself, and remember that I was being angry at him. It didn’t matter if his tantrum had cool magical effects. It was still a tantrum and I wasn’t going to let him just walk away. He knows as well as I do that there isn’t anyone else in Theas with the required skillset to fix all the bullshit the breach had started.

It wouldn’t matter if he runs, anyway. Corypheus will come after him regardless. He won’t survive an attack like that alone. He’ll barely make it out alive even when he’s _with_ the Inquisition. Our favourite original darkspawn wannabe-god isn’t after the Inquisition. He’s after the Anchor, which remains stubbornly on Alex’s hand and will not be removed, even when it starts killing him proper.

If he leaves now, he’ll die.

If Alex dies, the world ends.

And if this world is even half as real as it feels, I’m against that happening. Not to mention, I have no idea what will happen if I die. Maybe I’ll wake up. Maybe I’ll actually die for reals. I don’t plan on risking it.

So, for the sake of all reality, I have to talk him out of this.

No pressure.

“The Inquisition can protect you,” I tried to reason.

 _“Protect me?”_ he repeated with a shout of incredibly bitter laughter. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding. You really think a handful of soldiers can stop the _Chantry_ from dragging me off to be executed?”

“You’re _such_ a goddamn coward,” I bit out furiously.

“I didn’t _choose_ to be here!” he snarled, just as angry as I was.

“Oh for- nobody _wants_ to be here, Alex! We’re here because it’s the _right fucking thing to do.”_

He stopped dead in his tracks.

“…what?” he managed in a strangled voice.

I just continued to glare at him. “You _heard me.”_

He blinked in surprise. “You… how do you…?”

I let out a very loud, very exhausted groan and rolled my eyes dramatically. “You’re going to have be _slightly_ more specific than that.”

He responded to my snark by giving a thoroughly dirty look.

“My _name,”_ he replied a little sharply. _“How_ do you _know_ my _name?”_

Same way I know you’re the son of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick and Philliam, a Bard! is a relative of some kind. A combination of codex entries and the internet. Also, I came up with your name. You have no idea how close I came to just calling you Maxwell and foregoing any sort of actual creativity.

Guess he should count himself fortunate that I don’t much care for the name Maxwell. Garrett Hawke didn’t get so lucky.

But the truth will take way too long to explain and I don’t want to have a discussion about _different worlds_ and the concept of videogames and inevitably being forced to explain to this man that he’s little more than a figment of my imagination. I mean, come on. He’s freaked out enough already, and I already know I’m crazy. I don’t need the _mage_ from the _fictional fantasy land_ I’ve painstakingly recreated in my head to also tell me I’m crazy.

“Lucky guess,” I ground out after far too long.

For so long, he just stood there, watching me warily, not sure what to do – with me, with himself, with anything. I saw the anger drain from his face, leaving nothing but fear, confusion and pain. His left hand briefly clenched into a tight fist before he let out a long, slow exhale and forced himself to relax a little. Just a little, though.

Didn’t matter. Relaxing at all is enough. That means I may even stand a chance at getting through to him, at impressing upon him just how vital he is to the fate of the world at this point.

Jesus. The actual fate of the world literally hinges on his actions. No wonder he’s freaking the hell out.

How must that _feel?_ I’m not sure I can even begin to imagine.

“I can’t stay here,” he managed after what felt like forever. “They’ll kill me.”

“Alex, if a cataclysmic explosion, a physical trip through the Veil, the rifts, a near-constant onslaught of demons, and that thing on your hand all failed to kill you, what chance do you think the _Chantry_ has?”

He didn’t have anything to say to that. I don’t suppose I could blame him. He doesn’t even know the half of it. Now that I’m actually thinking about all the improbable situations he manages to survive, I’m seriously beginning to doubt whether he can actually pull off any of it.

“I didn’t kill the Divine,” he murmured somewhat absently, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “It wasn’t me.”

Oh Alex. I know. At this point, I know far more than you do. I know what you don’t remember. And I kind of wish I could tell you, but, you know. The universe potentially eating itself, and everything.

“So why are you running?” I challenged, instead of impulsively blowing my cover just to make him feel better about himself.

Alexander wasn’t having any of it, however. “Do you honestly think anyone will _believe_ me?”

 _“I_ believe you,” I pointed out dryly. “All the people back in Haven – _they_ believe you. Enough to think that you might just be a bloody _divine saviour._ That counts for something.”

He let out a harsh, frustrated sigh and began pacing, running a hand through his hair and grabbing fistfuls of it, practically on the verge of tearing it out as he paced back and forth. And back and forth. And just kept going like that for what seemed like forever. Back and forth. Back and forth. Always moving, never getting anywhere.

“Alex,” I called his name softly. “You don’t really want to leave.”

“Don’t I?” he hissed, still stressed out and frustrated beyond all comprehension.

“No. Because you know what it means if you do, and I refuse to believe you’re okay with that.”

“I can’t _do_ this!” he had to stop himself from outright screaming. “I can’t _be_ what they want me to be.”

“All anyone wants from you is to help close the Breach,” I tried to reason, despite knowing that wouldn’t always be true.

Soon they’ll want him to be the Inquisitor. They’ll want him to be a fighter, a leader, and a diplomat. They’ll want him to fix every single problem in the world; ending the mage rebellion, dragging the Wardens back from the abyss, resolving the conflict in Orlais, rooting out mercenaries and bandits, smashing red lyrium operations, beating back darkspawn resurgences… saving each and every single inconsequential village under the sun… fighting a goddamn holy war in the middle of all that…

If he thinks he’s overwhelmed now, he’s in for quite a nasty surprise.

“How do I even do that?” he asked quietly, now staring mindlessly at his left hand. “I can’t control this thing. I don’t even know what it _is.”_

“You’ll work it out,” I told him brightly. “After all, you’ve already closed rifts with it.”

Yeah. He’ll work it out, and _then_ it’ll kill him.

Nope. _No,_ we are absolutely _not_ thinking about Trespasser right now.

Alexander did not smile. “That just… sort of… happened.”

“Ah, but it just sort of happened more than once, didn’t it? That’s progress.”

There was a silence as he stopped to consider that. I don’t think he found it very helpful, but he stopped to consider it, regardless. It was something. Maybe the person I envisioned him to be is still in there, somewhere. There’s a heroic, absurdly powerful badass mage hiding in there somewhere. If not that, then the potential.

Potential is enough.

“Hey,” he called, snapping me out of my train of thought.

I glanced up at him. “Yeah? What?”

“You know my name – I don’t suppose I get to know yours?”

My eyes narrowed. “Emilia.”

He arched an eyebrow at that. “Just Emilia?”

I gave a small, thoroughly sarcastic curtsey – please don’t ask me how exactly I managed to curtsey sarcastically, it honestly just sort of happened – and couldn’t help but feel some perverse sense of satisfaction at actively keeping something so trivial from someone as important as Alexander Trevelyan. It was something I could hold over him. That’s really all that mattered to me.

That, and if I don’t think _Emily_ can fit in with normal Thedosians, then _Taylor-Moore_ definitely won’t cut it.

I wonder, do they _do_ hyphenated surnames here?

“Emilia is the only part of my name that’s important, _my lord.”_

Right. Angrily snark at the highborn mage. Totally good idea and not at all a super bad plan.

Alex just gave me a weak smile, however, and offered me his hand – which was shaking slightly. I blinked several times, mildly confused by this gesture. Slowly, gingerly, I took his hand, not wanting to leave him hanging. For a brief moment, we both stood there, grasping the other’s hand in a weird sort of a handshake. His hands were calloused, I noted. Not nearly as much as Vance’s, or any real swordsman, but enough to indicate that he’d been roughing it out in the wild for at least a little while.

Just in case the overgrown mess of hair and the scraggly attempt at a beard weren’t enough to go by.

“Thanks,” he murmured, letting go of me and moving back towards Haven. “And… sorry. About before.”

I shrugged and jogged after him. “It’s fine. You’re stressed.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” he said. “It’s just…”

“Been a bad few days? Not exactly at your best?”

For the first time, he smiled. “Something like that.”

You’d think I could’ve anticipated all of this. You’d think I’d be prepared to talk to the Herald of Andraste. You’d think I’d understand him, given the sheer amount of time I’ve spent practically _being_ him. You’d think I’d know all the ways he could react to anything, that I’d have a pretty decent grasp of his general personality, at the very least.

But it’s times like this I realise that I don’t know him at all.

“Hey, Alex?” I called after him somewhat awkwardly.

At the sound of his name, Alexander stopped just outside Haven’s gates and turned on his heels to face me. “Hmm?”

I fidgeted uncomfortably, not really knowing what to say. “I, uh… if you’re not too busy, if you’ve got the time, I may need to ask you for a teensy, _tiny_ little favour…”


	7. Boats Against The Current

Wood slammed into my back with a surprising amount of force, knocking me off balance and causing me to stumble, barely catching myself before I fell face-first into the snow. Immediately, I glared up at Alexander who stood there with a small crooked smile, pulling back slightly and twirling his staff in that way he does when he’s feeling particularly smug.

Where does he _get_ all that little stuff from? It’s not like I ever went to a huge amount of effort to build his character. So who gave him all his ticks and mannerisms, like that tapping his fingers against his palms thing he does when he’s nervous or uneasy? Was it BioWare? Did _BioWare_ add all this stuff I never noticed before?

“Dead,” he told me matter-of-factly. “You _can_ move, you know. You’re not nailed down in place.”

I gritted my teeth and pulled myself back up, gripping my sword tightly. “This is ridiculous. Why am I being taught swordplay by a _mage?”_

He shrugged innocently as he neatly dodged my swing. “I seem to recall you going out of your way to ask me. Apparently the Commander is just too intimidating?”

He sounded amused by that, like only a child or a very small, very young kitten would ever feel intimidated by Cullen. I suppose he had something of a point – I never felt at all uneasy around Cullen when playing the game. Except, when I was playing the game, I was a badass mage (specifically, the badass mage _standing right in front of me,_ never getting over that), and Cullen was an awkward ex-templar I knew from the Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall after that (and, well, I’ve romanced Cullen. I know what he’s like. I’ve seen it). Now I don’t have those things. I don’t have that rapport, nor the skills to defend myself. No one ever told me he’s a bloody hard ass.

And he’s so _tall._

Besides, who else am I going to turn to? _Cassandra?_

No. _Nope._ Never ever.

“He _is!_ He’s tall and muscly and wearing armour all the time and- and he _yelled_ at me.”

“What? When?” he asked, before the realisation dawned on him. “Oh… that was _you.”_

“Thus why I’m not training with _Commander Rutherford,”_ I answered dryly.

“Cullen seems to be a bit like that. And I’m pretty sure he was reminding you to use your shield. Which you’re still not doing.”

With a huge, exasperated sigh, I hefted the shield up. “Not my fault it’s so-”

I was cut off as the ornamental head of Alexander’s staff bashed against my chest, causing the air to rush out of my lungs all at once and sending me staggering back, gasping desperately for air.

“Dead,” the man himself called once again as he pulled back once again, allowing me to recollect myself. “What I don’t understand is how you managed to convince yourself that I’m any better.”

A heavy sigh escaped me as I brushed my hair out of my face and reassume the defensive stance he’d taught me, planting myself firmly on the ground, trying to lower my centre of gravity as much as possible. We’d been at this for maybe two minutes, and already I was on the verge of collapsing into the snow and wishing I really _was_ dead. For real. My… well, _everything_ hurt. My heart thumped in my chest and my lungs laboured for air and my hands were shaking from all the crazy adrenaline flooding my body. It was hard to focus on anything really, but Alex really seems to like peppering any and all combat situations with casual, somewhat inane chatter.

I’m starting to think it’s the only time he gets to actually talk to people.

He reminds me of Hawke in that way.

“Why wouldn’t you be better?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Well, let’s see,” he muttered mostly to himself as he expertly evaded every one of my attacks. “I’m a mage, which is usually enough for most people to give me a wide berth. And then there’s _this,”_ he briefly displayed his left hand, the violent green light of the Anchor still slashed across his palm, “which either makes me a wanted criminal or the Herald of Andraste. Most people would take Cullen.”

I shrugged just before going to swing at him. _“You_ don’t yell at me. And I wanted to give you something to occupy your time when you’re not being the Inquisition’s figurehead.”

“…thanks?” he asked as he casually leaned out of the way of my blade, clearly unsure how to take my words.

Suppose I can’t blame him for that.

“Dead,” he said with a small sigh as he effortlessly bested me once more. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never held a sword before in your life.”

My lip curled slightly. “Would you believe me if I said I haven’t?”

“Right now? Yes. I absolutely would.”

“Ugh, you’re not supposed to be like this,” I grumbled to myself. “You’re supposed to be all diplomatic and nice, not some snarky asshole.”

His eyebrows rose a little at that. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled sullenly. “It’d be easier if you didn’t use your staff. Or if you stopped magicking up a barrier every time I get close.”

His eyebrows rose critically at that. “I’m- …I’m not casting.”

“Yes, you _are,_ you lying liar. You _must_ be. How else would you be so good at dodging me?”

“Maybe you’re just that awful. Maybe I don’t need magic to beat you.”

“It’s hard to imagine a mage ever _not_ using magic.”

“And look here. No magic, and I’m still beating you,” he pointed out dryly, quickly jabbing me in the sides with his staff before I could even think to counter. “Dead.”

“That was so _not_ a fair move,” I complained.

He pulled a face at me. “Do you really think, when you’re fighting for your life against someone who’s also fighting for theirs, that _either_ of you will be thinking about what’s _fair?”_

I didn’t answer. Partly because he sounded more like an exasperated parent than he had any right to and the only adequate response to that is petulant silence.

Mostly because I know he’s right.

“Fair is relative,” he told me plainly, casually beckoning at me to attack. “So how about you stop thinking about _fairness_ and learn to parry instead?”

Ugh.

He is such an _asshole._

How? How on _earth_ did I manage to create someone who’s _this_ much of a complete and utter _asshole?_

Um, Emily? Do you remember how Dragon Age II went down? The personality you always preferred to play as every time you picked it up? Do you remember how much of an vexing gadfly _that_ protagonist of yours was? What about your Warden? Remember your Warden? You know, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Irritating-Everybody-in-a-Ten-Mile-Radius? Ser Constantly-Teases-His-Girlfriend-About-Feelings? Lord (in Morrigan's words, mind you) He-Will-Think-This-Means-I-Miss-Him-He-Will-Be-Insufferably-Pleased-With-Himself? Face it, you play assholes. Assholes who are good people deep down and without a doubt have their heart in the right place, but assholes all the same. Alex isn’t deviating from that pattern, he’s upholding it.

I charged at him, sword raised. He didn’t seem the least bit fazed by any of it. Of course he wouldn’t, the smug bastard.

“You’re putting too much force behind your attacks,” he pointed out calmly, stepping out my way and watching me stumble forwards as I felt the sharp pain of his staff smacking me across the small of my back. “Dead. You’re practically inviting people to use your own momentum against you.”

I huffed angrily in his general direction; it took all my self-control not to flip him off. It wasn’t fair. He was stronger, he was faster, he was experienced and he had magic on top of all that. I was having trouble working out what irritated me more; the fact that he kept beating me or the fact that he seemed so blasé doing it.

The worst, most humiliating part of all of this? He’d repeatedly expressed to me that he was a _novice_ swordsman at best, that he only really knew the bare basics, and that other than a brief stint in his childhood before he manifested magic, he was never given any formal martial training, and most of his non-magical fighting techniques are purely self-taught, largely improvised in the moment from his time on the run after the fall of Ostwick’s Circle when he had to fend off any templars who came after him during the events of the mage rebellion.

Thus why he’d opted to give me a sword and a shield and fight simply with his staff, ordering me to keep coming at him and critiquing everything about me while I did so.

So that’s what I did.

And here we are.

And _good god_ I have never hated someone so much.

I was broken out of my train of thought by a sharp burst of pain that spread out through my arm. I stepped back, sword slipping from my grip and clattering to the ground as I clutched my arm where he’d hit me.

 _“Ow!_ Christ, what was _that_ for?” I demanded, only to almost immediately regret my words. I was supposed to _not_ draw attention to myself; swearing with religious figures unheard of here in _Dragon Age Land_ was not a good way to achieve that goal. I didn’t even think about it. And god, I _hate_ that I didn’t think about it. I hate the fact that something so simple failed to occur to me.

I am so _bad_ at swearing in Thedosian.

If Alexander noticed my unusual swear, he made no mention of it.

 _“Shield,_ Emilia,” he chided gently.

“Careful, _my lord._ You wouldn’t want me to break that face of yours,” I snarled in his direction. Although to be totally honest, _I_ wouldn’t want me to break that face of his. It’s a pretty nice looking face.

His eyebrows rose questioningly. “Threatening a mage? That’s brave of you.”

“I’m not afraid of a little magic.”

“Says the girl who has clearly never seen it before.”

My lip curled. “Come at me, mage. I _dare_ you.”

He let out a heavy sigh and almost immediately, everything seemed to shift. My eyes darted down fearfully to the staff in his hands as energy crackled and sparked around him. I could feel the charge in the air around us and for one wild moment, I wondered what it must feel like to be able to channel that kind of energy at will. I have a rudimentary understanding of how magic in Thedas at best; it’s something about using energy from the Fade to warp reality around you. I don’t know exactly. I stopped reading the codex entries a while ago.

Probably a major oversight on my part, that.

And it just _felt_ dangerous. My eyes flicked up to his face, though I wasn’t sure what I expected to see. Alexander had never taken his eyes off me, his expression hardening as in one graceful, fluid movement, he swung his staff towards me, and I was promptly thrown off my feet as a wall of energy barrelled into me, sending me flying until I landed hard on my back in the snow about six feet away. Pain shot through my body the instant I made impact with the cold, hard, unforgiving ground. I let out a small, pitiful groan and tried to get up, or roll over, or something, only to find myself to exhausted and in too much pain to really move.

For what felt like forever, I just lay there, panting and staring aimlessly up at the sky, my mind reeling.

He’d just attacked me with magic. I’d goaded him and he’d elected to put me in my place by utterly _annihilating_ me with just one spell. I couldn’t help but feel a sudden surge of respect for templars. I can’t even imagine facing those kinds of attacks on a regular basis. For the first time, I began to see the reason behind the fear. I can’t possibly counter an attack like that. I could become a master swordsman and still never hope to match the outright power of a mage. Certainly not a mage as powerful as the one I was facing. And I wonder why people are so scared of him. It’s not because they’re cowards. It’s because he genuinely _is_ that frightening.

I never got why people were afraid of mages before. Now I realise that it’s not like they don’t have a _very_ good reason to be.

It’s dangerous people in possession of lethal power. You can’t take away their magic without basically severing them from their soul, so you do the best you can to make sure they don’t go crazy and slaughter everyone around them, which they’ve been known to do on occasion.

Real world minorities aren’t dangerous because of what makes them minorities. Mages, well, _are._ That’s the fundamental difference. Maybe the danger they present isn’t their fault, or something they asked for, but it’s a danger all the same.

It’s not so much _oppression of a minority_ – at least, not in the typical sense – as it is _gun control,_ albeit not gone about in the best way. The theory behind the Circle of Magi is good. Logical. And honestly, is the College of Enchanters any different to that? Either way you’re gathering up the mages to teach them how to safely navigate their abilities and all the danger that comes with it.

The Circle no longer exists as far as my play-through is concerned. Guess that’s what happens when you ally with the mages and get Leliana elected as Divine. I used to think that was the right thing to do – abolish the oppressive regime and overthrow the tyranny of the templars and the Chantry. Now that I’m stopping to think about it… I’m not so sure.

Whoa. Did I just… _see things from the templar’s perspective?_ Am I actually, genuinely, _agreeing with Vivienne?_

Clearly, the blow I just took screwed with my brain. I may have a concussion.

Slowly, the Herald of Andraste himself entered my field vision, standing over me and looking mildly concerned. He knelt down and carefully offered me his hand, looking apologetic now.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

I let out a breathless chuckle as I took his hand and allowed him to wrench me back up to my feet. “Did you even break a _sweat?”_

He shrugged and looked away. “I- …I didn’t know I could do that.”

“The mage didn’t know he could do magic?”

He gritted his teeth and looked mildly annoyed at me. “I mean, it’s easier. My spells are a lot stronger than what I’m used to. It’s been different since…”

He trailed off into silence, but I was pretty sure I knew what he was struggling to say out loud.

“Since the Conclave?” I suggested.

He blinked several times and glanced up at me, before looking right back down at his hand again. “I- …yeah. Since the Conclave.”

He sounded uneasy, and I couldn’t really blame him. Slowly we both glanced up at the Breach, which still hung ominously at the sky, surrounded by violent, swirling storm clouds. When I looked back at Alex, I couldn’t help but notice that his left hand was clenched into a tight fist. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what he was thinking. He was clearly worried about the current weakness of the Veil, about how it was affecting him and the way he fought and used magic generally. It didn’t take a genius to know that the idea terrified him. In his place, I can’t say I’d be any better.

It then occurred to me that I had _no idea_ what he was going through. There were a million emotions in his expression and I couldn’t tell a single one of them apart. He was not the cool, confident protagonist who was fazed by absolutely nothing. He was not a man I could see calmly facing down Corypheus and the Not-An-Archdemon (I _know_ it’s really called the red lyrium dragon, but that just isn’t quite as catchy) on his own; not a man I could picture inspiring thousands and leading the Inquisition into a holy war against the forces of evil. Hell, I couldn’t even imagine him casually brushing off the constant threat of demonic possession that hangs over him and all other mages like a shroud.

All I saw was a young man staring with quiet horror at his left hand.

Magic scar that was killing you not too long ago suddenly causes your already dangerously powerful magic abilities to become that much more dangerous and powerful? I’d be a little horrified too.

And the fact that he’s so obviously scared… it makes him that much more human.

And he’s probably going to die in a few years’ time.

 _Dammit,_ we’re not supposed to be thinking about that.

That wasn’t all, though. There was something else in his expression – not just fear, but sadness. I couldn’t really tell. Suddenly, he looked distant, his eyes glazed over, and he may as well have been a million miles away.

“Are you okay?” I asked him quietly.

He seemed to snap out of a trance at my words. “What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Are _you_ alright?”

I casually brushed some snow from my clothes and nodded cheerfully. “Sure. I’m swell.”

His eyebrows rose critically. “That’s… not most people’s reaction to being attacked by a mage for the first time.”

“I’m not most people,” I answered smoothly. “And besides, I know you don’t mean it.”

I don’t want to give him any reason to think I might be afraid of him, for whatever reason. I know he’s a good person, regardless. I would _have_ to know; I created him. I played as him for over a hundred hours of my life. If he’s anything like the character he’s supposed to embody, then he _has_ to be a good person, magic or no. No Herald of mine could possibly be anything else. If all my play-throughs of BioWare games have taught me anything, it’s that I am actually incapable of playing a jerkass. I always have to save the world and I have to have universal approval while I do it.

Unless we’re talking about Anders.

Because _screw_ Anders.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated a character as much as I hate Anders. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it’s because he was a manipulative bastard who used Hawke – and by extension, _me_ – and the friendship they had to commit an act of terror and kill hundreds of innocent people; _thousands,_ if you count everyone who’s died in the war since.

It didn’t matter as much before. But now it’s real. It was a real war. The people who died that day and every day since were real people.

And I will never forgive that. I can’t.

Maybe killing him is the unpopular decision. I’m not sure I care. Because to me, it’s the _right_ one.

And yeah, you could argue that Fenris and Sebastian are just as bad. Only problem with that is that, despite all their faults, neither Fenris nor Sebastian woke up one morning and decided to commit an act of terror because of perceived social justice and oppression. And before anyone argues – on account of my killing the hell out of Anders, Sebastian never invaded Kirkwall in my continuity. And Fenris targeted _slavers,_ as opposed to normal, decent people who were simply unlucky enough to be inside the Kirkwall Chantry when it was blown to smithereens.

In the end, Meredith and Anders are exactly the same. When you go that extreme, it doesn’t matter what side you’re on.

So, I guess it’s fitting that Hawke killed them both.

A small, mildly pained smile pulled at the corners of Alexander’s lips, but he didn’t reply.

So instead, I opted to return to my defensive stance, readying myself for another bout. Alex’s eyes glanced down at my feet before flicking back up to my face, and he shook his head.

“I think that’s it for today,” he told me quietly, his voice strangely hoarse.

He’s not okay.

He is _really_ not okay.

Anxiously, I thought back over the conversation, trying to pinpoint where exactly he’d made a turn for the broodier and depressive state he was currently in. We were talking about the Anchor, and he was kind of freaked out, but he didn’t get visibly upset until I mentioned the Conclave…

I bit my lip.

The _Conclave._

The Conclave which very much exploded and killed everyone present save for the man directly in front of me. Slowly, I glanced over him one more time, trying to read his expression as the reality of it finally began to truly dawn on me. Suddenly, I had new burning question that I’d never thought to ask before.

_Who did you lose?_

Rather than push it, I just pulled back, nodding. “Sure. Same time tomorrow?”

He inhaled shakily. “I- …maybe. I just, I’ll see if I have any spare time.”

He turned to go, gripping his staff so tightly I could see his knuckles whiten.

“Hey, Alex?” I called after his retreating back.

For the briefest of moments, he stopped, twisting around just enough to see me in his peripheral vision. For what felt like an eternity but was probably only half a second, I stood there, chewing my lip anxiously.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. “For helping me train, I mean.”

He gave me the barest of nods before vanishing from the training yard and through the main gates of Haven, leaving me standing there, motionless in the snow.


	8. Those We Meet Can Change Us

One thing the games don’t tell you is how long it takes for anything to actually _happen_ in Thedas. Oh, you need to scout out the Hinterlands? Great. Let’s just go and _send actual scouts_ who need to be given _at least a week_ to get there, more time to get set up and go do some actual scouting, and _yet more time_ to handle all the imminent threats in the area and _more time still_ to report back (which will take days to get to Haven, regardless) before we’ll even _consider_ sending one of our most valuable agents to such a volatile area.

So in reality, Alexander Trevelyan had a lot of sitting around and waiting to do. Since no one would let him help, despite his insistent offers. And believe me, they _were_ insistent. I’d catch him running all over Haven, with arms full of elfroot or papers or bandages or half-forged blades or he’d be off in the mountains, scouting out logging sites and whatever else he does when he goes wandering.

Mostly, what he was doing was driving Cassandra absolutely bat shit crazy.

“What do you mean, _he’s gone?”_ the oh so familiar Nevarran accent shouted from across the training yard.

I let out a sigh and rest my head against the crate of weapons I was trying to organise, the throbbing headache (stupid shitty medieval diet of awful combined with relentless extensive physical training and exercise equals _not happy Emily_ ) I was struggling to deal with not helped by Cassandra’s growing rage at the increasingly reckless behaviour displayed by the Herald of Andraste. I didn’t realise it was even possible to actually piss people off by being unfailingly helpful. Alexander appears to have a gift for it.

“The Herald said something about the healers needing more elfroot and disappeared into the mountains, my lady,” the unfortunate messenger who was on the receiving end of Cassandra managed to splutter out.

_“Again?”_

“He claimed it was urgent.”

For what seemed like forever, Cassandra just stared, wide eyed, not quite sure how to process this information.

“You _must_ be-” she snarled, only to almost immediately cut herself off before she said anything too unfavourable. “…someone find him. _Now.”_

I jumped up. Sounds like a job for Alexander’s most devoted stalker. “I’ll go. I think I know where he is.”

Cassandra turned just enough to glower at me. I gave her a small bow before spinning around and practically taking off into the surrounding mountains. The less time I spend in Cassandra’s presence, the better. Besides, I wasn’t lying – I _do_ know where he is. There’s a large clearing where a herd of wild druffalo tend to hang out not too far out from the village where he usually goes. It’s far enough away to be alone but close enough that he can get back reasonably quickly with no trouble.

One thing we _do_ have in common – we’re both awkward and introverted.

I guess it was too much to hope that maybe my Inquisitor would be as engaging and charismatic as I would like him to be. Now all I can do is wait and hope he gets better at social interaction and public speaking before he winds up letting Orlais destroy itself because he’s not charming enough and manages to inevitably find some way to disgrace himself at the Grand Masquerade.

Oh shit, it’s going to be a total disaster, isn’t it? But Cassandra knows how awkward he is. She must. She's probably spent the most amount of time with him, other than Solas. And maybe Varric. And I mean, she's a Seeker. She wouldn’t willingly put a shy, flighty mage in charge of the organisation she’s poured her heart and soul into, would she? _Would she?_

Yes. She would. She absolutely would.

And we are all so _doomed._

I shook my head and tried to push it out of my mind. Alex may not be exactly the person I created in the game, but there’s no reason why he can’t eventually become that. He has potential. He has so much potential to be all kinds of things it's sort of insane. Like, I don't think anyone truly appreciates the sheer variety of outcomes that all depend on him and how he chooses to act. How he chooses to play the game, if you will. Because what I'm beginning to realise is that I don't control him. I'm not the one playing the game anymore. I'm not the one upon whom the fate of the world depends.

And let me tell you; not having that control? It's fucking  _terrifying._ Suddenly you realise just how easily absolutely everything could possibly go wrong. And how so not in control you are. Especially when the one who  _should_ be in control is constantly going off to do God-knows-what for God-only-knows-why.

I am a modern girl in Thedas struggling desperately to rein in a totally out-of-control and generally rogue Herald of Andraste. Needless to say, it's not the funnest experience I've ever had.

Eventually I found Alexander exactly where I expected him to be, perched cross-legged atop a large boulder, bent over, focusing on something he'd placed on the rock before him. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he didn't notice me casually walking up behind him.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold, my totally rogue and out-of-control Herald of Andraste.

Sitting quietly on a rock in some attempt to get a bit of space.

What did I say? Awkward and introverted.

And inevitably going to be crowned  _Lord Inquisitor._

Because why the hell not? Shy young mage who uses sarcasm as a coping mechanism. Let's put him in charge of, essentially,  _everything of even remote importance._ This is totally not a bad idea at all. He can handle it. He's been chosen by God. Maybe.

Suddenly, I found myself wondering how he feels about that. I'd never thought to ask until now. The only time we even came close to discussing the subject of supposed divinity, we'd just met proper and he had a blade to my throat, before pacing around, torn over whether or not to leave. We never really got the chance to discuss the topic in-depth.

 And he still hasn't noticed me.

I grinned as a diabolical idea popped into my brain. If I can just get close enough without him realising...

 _“Dead,”_ I told him triumphantly as I poked him in the ribs.

Alexander let out a startled gasp and involuntarily jerked away from me, his head snapping up from the parchment and looking at me like I was a complete idiot.

“Funny,” he remarked dryly. 

I ignored that and peered over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Writing a letter.”

“Oh? To whom, may I ask?”

He closed his eyes and let out a tired sigh. “My sister, if you must know.”

His sister.

He has siblings.

I never considered…

“You have siblings?”

He nodded. “Two brothers and a sister.”

“And you’re… the youngest?” I guessed, remembering that the non-mage Trevelyan, at least, was referred to as the youngest in their family. I couldn’t remember if it was the same for a mage. I wasn’t sure if it mattered, regardless. He’s not really done a whole lot to fit in perfectly with the game.

Alex shook his head. “Not quite. Second-youngest. Not that it’s ever stopped Violet from trying to pull the big sister act on me.”

“I take it she’s younger than you?”

“She is, yes.”

Violet. He has a younger sister called Violet and I somehow never thought of this before. He has two older brothers and a younger sister. In that case, he must have parents, too. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. A few cousins. He has a family. Is part of a family. There are people in his life who probably care deeply for him. People he's still in touch with, despite being a mage and the fact that he likely hasn't lived with them or even seen them in probably years. People he'd probably go back to right now, if he could. If he wasn't obligated to stay here, if the Anchor didn't give him the unique ability to close rifts. Family. Friends. Lovers. A past. People he loved. People he lost. All that junk.

How can my own perception of a videogame construct seem so _goddamn_ human?

Why do I sound so surprised? Haven’t I always felt a deep emotional connection with fictional characters? How is this any different from that?

Because I’m here. And he’s there. And we’re talking. Hell, we’ve been talking so much these days part of me is inclined to call us friends.

Jesus. Alexander Trevelyan is my friend. Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

“And your parents?” I pressed, too curious for my own good now. “Are you going to write to them as well?”

He sighed and leaned back, sprawling out over the boulder. “I imagine it’ll take Violet all of twelve seconds to loudly announce every detail of anything I have to tell her to everyone in the estate. There’s no real need to send individual letters to everyone.”

“Then why not just write to your parents? Why your sister?”

“Because she’ll never leave it alone if I don’t.”

I laughed. Reminds me of another character in Inquisition. “Hmm. Forceful sisters. Sounds like you and Commander Rutherford have a few things in common.”

He blinked in surprise at that. “You know, given just how much you seem to avoid him, you’re possibly the _last_ person I’d expect to know anything about Cullen’s personal life.”

I shrugged and remained silent, carefully deciding that any answer I gave had too much potential to be incriminating. I really needed to learn when to keep my idiot mouth shut. It was so easy before Alex came into the picture proper. Before I started talking to him. Before he did that thing where he turned into a real person and as a consequence wormed his way into that strong emotional bond I have with my character without ever realising. I feel to comfortable around him. Too at ease. It's too easy to tell him things I shouldn't.

Does he have that effect on everyone? Is this how he needles all those tragic backstories out of all the companions? 

I need to be so much more careful.

“You just… you seem very good at knowing things you shouldn’t,” Alexander continued, though he sound more like he was musing to himself than actually accusing me of anything.

Careful, _careful,_ don’t say anything suspicious, be very, _very careful_ about how you answer that question, Emily. Like, so careful. But don’t consider it for too long. That’s suspicious too.

I stretched and gave a huge, nonchalant yawn. “It’s a gift.”

“It’s wasted in the infantry,” he told me matter-of-factly. "Seems like you'd be better off as one of Leliana's people."

Oh... no. Nope. No way. Absolutely not. We are staying so far away from Leliana. She's been suspicious of me once. I think she may be getting me suspicious of me again, considering how much time I've been spending with Alex, too. Not enough to do anything about it, but I have to wonder how long it'll be until that changes. I can't hide behind Alex's friendship and protection forever.

"I like the infantry," I told him a little defensively. 

He arched an eyebrow at that. "Really. You  _like_ being pummelled into the ground on a daily basis."

"I'm getting better," I insisted.

He laughed. "That's not how I'd put it, but sure."

I sighed.  _Smug bastard._

But this isn't why I'm here.

“Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast requests your presence back at the village, my lord,” I told him with a slight bow, because this is how I take the piss now.

Alex’s head snapped up at that. “Cass- … _what?”_

I smiled. “Cassandra. Angry Nevarran woman? Dragged you up a mountain?”

He pulled a face at me. “Yes, the Cassandra part I got. Just wasn’t expecting the… uh, full thing.”

I laughed and settled down next to him. “Couldn’t resist. Can you _imagine_ having a name like that, though? Never thought I’d say this, but I got lucky with Grace.”

He smiled a little at that. “Emilia Grace, huh?”

“That’s it,” I replied cheerfully, laying back against the boulder’s smooth surface. “What did you get saddled with?”

Because I never considered middle names before this exact moment and suddenly I’m morbidly curious and I have to know. I mean, what could it be? Does he have one at all?

For a long time, Alex didn’t reply. For the longest time, I wasn't sure he'd ever answer me.

And then;

“Uh, Cassius,” he managed in a somewhat strangled voice, refusing to meet my gaze as he mumbled something so quietly I could barely hear him.

“Eh? What?”

He let out a long, tired groan. “Aloysius. Cassius Aloysius.”

I snorted. “You’re kidding.”

His expression hardened and he didn’t reply. For so long, I watched him, waiting for him to laugh and admit to having me on before telling me the truth. But the longer the silence dragged on, the less sure I became it was ever going to happen.

I- …I think that might actually be his name.

What, _seriously?_

Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan?

I looked him up and down several times.

I guess he _is_ a noble.

Really, though? _Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan?_ Out of all the things he could’ve been called, and my subconscious goes with _that?_ I don’t think I’ve even _heard_ of at least one of those names before.

“…you’re _not_ kidding, are you?”

He didn’t reply.

“Oh,” I managed, trying and largely failing to hold back the fit of giggles that threatened to overwhelm me. “Oh, _wow._ I am _so sorry.”_

Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I let out a shout of hysterical laughter, giggling like a total maniac as Alex just sat there looking pained next to me. I curled in on myself, laughing so hard I could feel my sides aching. Laughing so hard I could feel my abs coming through. 

“What the hell kind of a name is _Aloo-wiss-us?”_ I managed to gasp after what felt like an eternity.

He still didn’t meet my eye. I’d made him terribly self-conscious. Aw. Poor baby. Poor little baby Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan and his overly pompous, noble sounding, _stupid-ass name._

“It’s _Aloysius,”_ he told me a little defensively. “And it’s a family name.”

“It _sounds_ made-up,” I pointed out.

“He was my great grandfather,” Alexander sighed. “The former patriarch of the Trevelyan family, and very well respected. I have a few cousins who share it.”

My eyebrow rose at that. _“Cousins,_ huh? You have cousins?”

He laughed. Actually laughed. It was a mildly bitter laugh borne of probably disbelief, but it was a laugh all the same.

“I’m a _Trevelyan,”_ he pointed out dryly. _“Of course_ I have cousins.”

Cousins. Siblings, parents, great-grandparents, cousins. How many cousins? Does he keep in touch with them? How would they feel about all of this? What about the fact that he's a mage? How did his family take that little piece of news? Suddenly, I have to know. I have to find out. It's more important than anything else. Part of me even thinks it's more important than working out why I'm here and how I can possibly get out, and ultimately force myself to wake up from this paranoid delusion.

Because he's a person. With thoughts and feelings and history and a family and I have to know. I  _have_ to know.

“How many cousins do you actually have?" I asked in as light a tone as I could possibly manage. "Just out of curiosity.”

“Fifty-nine,” he replied without missing a beat.

I took a double take.

“What?” I asked before I could stop myself. “I’m sorry, but _what?”_

Alexander just gave a tired sigh. He’s obviously had this conversation before. Probably a load of times. Probably so many times he’s lost count. He’s done this dance before. Doesn’t make me any less shocked. Because _dude._ Fifty-nine cousins. Who has _fifty-nine cousins?_  I mean, I have eleven, and I thought that was a fair amount. 

“Fifty-nine,” I repeated blandly.

“Yes.”

“Fifty. _Nine.”_

_“Yes.”_

“How is that even _possible?”_

“It’s a big family.”

“No freaking kidding. What must your family reunions _be_ like?”

He glanced away. "Crowded and loud, usually. And dramatic. I don't think Lucille has ever passed up an opportunity to revive old family tensions."

My brow creased. "Lucille?"

"My great aunt," he clarified quietly, before growing a little distant. "She'd always manage to time her summer balls for when I was visiting home."

"Sounds sort of deliberate."

He laughed. "It  _was_ deliberate, believe me. She liked to try and get the biggest reactions she could. And nothing stirs up drama amongst the Trevelyan clan  _quite_ like a mage."

My eyebrows rose, a little put off by this admission. He sound all too perky about this, the mildly bitter tone I expected from him was decidedly absent. I couldn't imagine why. Everything he was saying, you'd think he would have some underlying tone of bitterness or resentment. But there's none of that. He's just all smiles and cheer, like his great aunt using him to cause of fuss amongst the more conservative relatives was nothing more than an innocent game...

Actually, no. That does sound pretty funny.

Before I could ask any further questions to clarify, Alex gathered up his papers and stretched. 

"Well," he began cheerfully. "I'd better not keep Cassandra waiting. I'll meet you in the yard at dusk."

I nodded and stood up too. "Sure. See you then."

And with that, he casually jumped off the boulder, landing lightly on the snowy ground and giving me a slight wave before disappearing into the surrounding woodland, back in the direction of Haven.


	9. Near To The Wild Heart Of Life

The time Alexander spent in the Hinterlands was possibly the most agonisingly slow thing I ever had to endure. It was like it was Christmas Eve. Every. Single. Goddamn. _Day._

No, I’m _not_ super emotionally attached to a man I know basically nothing about even though that’s pretty surprising because he’s _literally a figment of my imagination_ and by that logic I _should_ know absolutely everything there is to know about him. Where on _earth_ would _anyone_ get _that_ impression? What kind of _sense_ would that make? Is _sense_ something I can even _expect_ at this point? I’m a prisoner in my own mind, a world of my own making where I am usually so in control of everything I may as well basically be God. And I’m stuck here. As me. Not anyone interesting. Not as anyone talented, or cool. As boring old unfit, overly anxious, awkward, completely at a loss as to how to survive in a world permanently stuck in the Middle Ages _me._ Boring. Non-magical. Human. _Emily._

So yeah, excuse me if I’m a _little_ bit clingy with the guy who I originally used as an avatar into this place. I have to hold onto _something_ that gives me the illusion of control. Excuse me if said thing happens to be Alexander.

Alexander, who has two absurdly stupid middle names and a younger sister called Violet and _fifty-nine cousins…_

And when he comes back, he’ll immediately leave for Val Royeaux and when he gets back from _that_ he’ll more than likely disappear right back off to the Hinterlands to talk to the mages and get caught up in crazy time-bending rifts which he’ll have to fix, but at least when he comes back after that he’ll be bringing Dorian back with him.

And then I’ll have another Dragon Age character to giggle and silently gawk at from afar, while never quite plucking up the courage to talk to.

Because as much as I love and adore the gayest moustachioed Tevinter mage, the thought of being anywhere near him in real life _terrifies_ me. Ah, why couldn’t I have delusions about my male Lavellan play-through? You know, the one where I romanced the hell out of Dorian and it was glorious? If I catch the Iron Bull mooning over Dorian, I will scream. So. _Loud._

I’m not against them as a couple because I think it’s problematic – nothing of the sort. I’m just not super into Bull and Dorian as a couple because oh man, I am _super possessive_ of Dorian. Not even afraid to admit that. If you’re a boy with something of a tragic backstory from Tevinter, odds are I will have that kind of reaction. You don’t even want to know how I reacted when Isabela started lowkey flirting with Fenris in Dragon Age II.

(Spoiler alert – it was something along the lines of; _get your greasy mitts away from my boyfriend you skeezy pirate whore.)_

And this is the part where I’m thankful I’m living the events of _Inquisition_ rather than the other two. Because II would’ve been a goddamn mess and can you _imagine_ me in Origins, within a hundred feet of Alistair (speaking of characters I’m needlessly possessive of)? I mean, yeah, my canon Warden was a boy who totally kissed Morrigan _on the lips, several times,_ but you can bet your sweet ass I’ve got an Origins playthrough where I wound up the Queen of Ferelden because why the fuck wouldn’t you romance and eventually marry Alistair, he’s _adorable._ Warden Queen Cousland is just a super cool perk of an already fun romance. A fun perk I went out of my way to get because I originally romanced Alistair with a Tabris and they both stayed Wardens but it just wasn’t as satisfying because why do that when you can be _Warden Queen Cousland?_

I really should ask about that, now that I’m thinking about it. Are we just going with what I have in the Dragon Age Keep, my canon continuity, or are any of my Wardens and Hawkes (haha… she says, like any of her Hawkes are at all different…) up for grabs? Is there a Warden Queen? Is Kieran a thing? Does Kieran have a living father, if he is a thing? Oh god, what if it’s my Mahariel? _Have I doomed Leliana to a deep dark abyss of depression over her Dalish elf boyfriend heroically sacrificing himself to save the world?_

Is _that_ why she’s so suspicious of me? Does she _know?_

What if Alistair isn’t the king? What if he’s still a Warden? What if Alex is forced to make that impossible decision I agonised over for something like five solid minutes, before eventually saving Hawke because god _dammit_ I’m one of that rare breed of person who loves Hawke more than Alistair? I mean, don't get me wrong, I  _love_ Alistair, like,  _a lot,_  but Hawke just has a special place in my heart and there is nothing I can do about it. Also,  _I can't do that to Fenris._

Sweet. Jesus. _Christ._

Someone clicked their fingers in front of my face, in a clear effort to make me focus on reality.

I blinked several times and glanced up, to find Nell, one of the other recruits I’d managed to exchange a few friendly sentences with, standing there and watching me a little warily.

“Emilia?” she called worriedly. “You okay?”

I forced a small smile and shrugged, before glancing back out at the mountains we were supposed to be watching. As is the assumption when you’re a watch guard, on watch duty. Most of the competent soldiers headed to the Hinterlands with the scouts, to help protect them and establish a forward camp. Consequently, us recruits have had to fill in their places on things like watch duty.

Which, let’s just put this out there right now, is possibly the dullest job in all Thedas.

“Yeah,” I said with a small sigh. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

She moved her head side to side and rolled her shoulders back, stretching a little after being cooped up here on Haven’s makeshift battlements for so long.

“What about?” she asked, more than likely in a desperate attempt to alleviate the soul crushing boredom.

I didn’t meet her eye. “The Hero of Ferelden.”

She paused mid-stretch, watching me curiously. “Is this because of that honour guard they sent to Highever?”

I shrugged. It was the most vague, careful thing I could do. If I gave an actual answer I was more likely to get it spectacularly wrong and Nell’s probably the closest friend I have here short of Alexander. I need people I can trust, and trust me back. Can’t risk alienating them, or making them suspicious.

Nell didn’t seem to expect anything more than that, though. She turned, staring aimlessly out at the night sky, growing distant.

“I remember the massacre. Hard to believe it was ten years ago,” she murmured. “I feel for the teyrn. I really do.”

Ah. So we’re dealing with a Cousland. My canon Cousland? Or my Warden Queen? Likely my canon Cousland. I mean, really. It’s my canon Inquisitor. I could’ve just figured this out on my own if I hadn’t let myself get so freaked out.

Call it a quest for confirmation on a theory.

“Are you from Highever?”

She nodded. “I was, yes. My aunt worked at the castle. Everything was fine, then one morning I woke up and suddenly everyone was dead.”

Oh, joy. Looks like you’ve just stumbled on a serious emotional pitfall, Emily. Well done. Good luck navigating this delicately.

“At least the man responsible died,” I tried, still doing my best to be quiet and vague while also kind of sort of comforting. I can’t say I was doing a spectacular job.

Just for a moment, the corners of Nell’s lips twitched in a small attempt at a smile. “There is that. Let it never be said the Couslands aren’t resilient. Not many people can say one of their nobles slew an Archdemon.”

I hummed thoughtfully, not bothering to say anything. There really wasn’t much I _could_ say. Nell turned around to face me, smiling now.

“You know, you’re probably the first person to find out I’m from Highever and not ask me if I knew him. The Hero of Ferelden, I mean.”

_Him._

Looks like we have a winner; canon Cousland. That should surprise absolutely nobody. I quickly made a mental note to stay even further away from Morrigan than I was already planning. And Kieran. Stay, like, _so_ far away from Kieran.

I pulled an expression of feigned shock. “What, you mean you _don’t_ know every individual in Highever personally? Nell, I’m _appalled.”_

She laughed. “To be fair, he _is_ a member of Highever’s ruling house.”

“Isn’t that even _less_ reason for you to know him personally?”

She considered that for a moment. “I… suppose so, yes. Huh. Now all we need is someone from Kirkwall.”

My eyes narrowed. “Someone from Kirkwall? Why?”

“I lived in Highever, you seem to be friends with the Herald of Andraste. All we’re missing is some connection to the Champion.”

I glanced away. “I wouldn’t call us-”

“Emilia,” she stated my (fake) name flatly. “You train with him almost every day. Don’t think the rest of us don’t see you.”

I gave an innocent shrug. “I just asked him to help me. You know how much trouble I’ve been having.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you decided to approach the _Herald of Andraste,_ of _all_ people, for help?”

“He’s a good teacher,” I told her defensively – or at least, he’s a halfway decent teacher when he’s not being total asshole about it. “And it’s not like he has much else to do in Haven.”

“He’s a _mage,”_ she pointed out, like it explained everything.

“I did notice that.”

“You’re not _worried_ about that? About what he could _do_ to you?”

“He’s a _good_ mage,” I argued.

“We can only hope.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He can tear open the Veil. The last time mages did that…”

“Alexander _isn’t_ one of the ancient magisters,” I insisted.

“But he _could_ end up doing exactly the same thing. He _could_ end up unleashing something even _worse_ than the Blight.”

“He _hasn’t,”_ I reminded her, maybe a little harshly. “And he _won’t._ He’s better than that.”

Nell didn’t look entirely convinced, but she ultimately shook her head, deciding to let it go.

“I suppose he is,” she conceded. “Perhaps that’s why the Maker chose him.”

For so long, I just watched her, trying to work out what she was feeling. Was this just the normal anti-mage rhetoric that comes as standard in Thedas? Or did she have bad experiences because of the rebellion? How do I ask without coming off like I’m prying – which I totally am, I’m prying, I pry all the time, I have to, because I have to know.

I didn’t, though. I remained silent, as Nell stretched and yawned once again, staring aimlessly off into the distance.

“I hope you’re right about him,” she whispered. “I guess we’ll just have to see.”


	10. Lost In The Longing To Understand

It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later did I actually see Alexander for more than a couple of seconds as we exchanged a passing glance before he was practically shipped off to Val Royeaux. And even then, it was pretty late at night, I was supposed to be on patrol, and he should’ve been holed up in the cabin he’d been relegated to, sleeping like a normal person who doesn’t have night watch shifts and patrols.

Which, surprise, in a totally bizarre and completely random twist of fate, he wasn’t.

(Did you get the sarcasm there? Did you? Was it clear enough? _Can I possibly make myself sound any more sarcastic than I already have?)_

He was, somewhat surprisingly, kneeling in the snow in front of a small, probably Andrastian shrine – eyes closed, head bowed, hands clasped together in prayer, murmuring what were most likely verses from the Chant of Light so quietly I couldn’t make out the words. He was so absorbed in his own private little chantry session that he didn’t notice me standing there, maybe twenty feet away, watching him curiously as yet more burning questions surfaced in my mind.

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me to find that he was religious. When I was playing the game, I had him maintain a sort of weird middle ground, and try to remain as utterly neutral as possible. Like, more agnostic than full-blown Andrastian. He believed in the Maker (as I assumed he would), but wasn’t a particularly dedicated or avid practitioner of the religion (because he’s a mage and probably has problems with that). He never clearly stated one way or the other, as far as the whole ‘chosen’ thing went.

But that was just me, trying to keep a neutral position. Not wanting to state one way or the other out of fear the game would later prove me wrong. Not wanting to make the wrong decision, somehow. Wanting to keep all my options open and keep my friendships up with both the religious companions and the ones who are less into that sort of thing.

So, was that my views, or his? How much of my playthrough of the game was me, rather than him?

Fuck.

There are so many things about him I don’t know. That are so different to me. How can I know he’s going to make all the same decisions? What if he doesn’t? Then my playthrough is going to be all mucked up, it won’t match with him and his decisions, everything will be wrong and I just can’t deal with it because it won’t match up and… _and…_ the second I wake up back in the real world, I’m going to have to go right back and start his campaign _all over again,_ just for the sake of being more true to the character himself.

Joy of joys.

For so long, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, torn between talking to him and leaving him be. On one hand, it’s obviously a private moment and I shouldn’t intrude. On the other, he’s been quiet and withdrawn ever since they returned from Val Royeaux, and I’d have expected him to head right back off to Redcliffe by now.

Suddenly, Alex stopped. He pushed himself to his feet and sighed heavily.

“Shouldn’t you be on patrol?”

I jumped violently in surprise. “Oh! Ah, forgive me, my lord, I…”

I tried off into silence as I realised I had no idea what I was saying, coupled with the fact that I’d just called him _my lord._ I never do that. Not seriously, anyway. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know if I’d just been in the company of people who only refer to him as _the Herald_ or _Lord Trevelyan,_ or something else. I’m not sure it matters, anyway.

Alexander shook his head, but still didn’t face me, his eyes never leaving the shrine.

“It’s fine,” he said, somewhat rigidly, while seeming even more distant than usual. “I should be getting back.”

With that, he turned to go, making his way back to the cabin he took up residence in after the whole fiasco that was the prologue was done with. For a couple of agonising seconds, I stood still, remaining exactly where I was as he stalked past me in almost total silence, aside from the crunching of snow under his boots.

“Wait,” I called after his retreating back.

Alexander stopped. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t say anything. But he did stop, dead in his tracks, ankle-deep in snow.

I ran a hand through my hair, a little stressed. “Are you… okay?”

Slowly, he twisted around just enough to see me in his peripheral vision. Then, slowly, he let out the hugest of sighs and practically fell against the tall wooden battlements of Haven, sliding to the ground and pulling his knees into his chest. Suddenly, he looked exhausted, tired, frightened, confused – all those emotions he’d been working so hard to hide since returning from Orlais.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

Slowly, tentatively, I sat down in the snow next to him, not caring when the snow melted through my clothes and consequently caused my arse to freeze. It didn’t make a difference – everything was cold and wet and miserable in Haven all the time, I may as well fit in with that mood.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He looked away, running a hand through his hair, probably in some attempt to push it back out of his face while also shaking the snowflakes out. When he was done doing _that,_ he started absently rubbing his chin, his fingers grazing over the coarse stubble that carpeted his jaw.

It was growing on me, the dishevelled mage who’s clearly recently come out from an extended period on the run thing. Makes me think about the rebellion. About what his part in it was. What he’s going to think when he finds out about Grand Enchanter Fiona selling them all out to Tevinter instead of, you know, going to _the king who gave them sanctuary in Ferelden_ for help, like a normal person.

When Alexander failed to say anything, though, I let out a small sigh and looked back at the shrine he’d been praying at seconds earlier.

“I take it you’re Andrastian?” I asked after what felt like forever.

Alexander didn’t meet my eye. “Not a very good one, but, yeah.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, eyebrows raised curiously.

 _“Mage,_ Emilia.”

Why does everyone always say that like it explains absolutely everything? Yes, he’s a mage. Okay. Good. Glad that’s cleared up. How does that affect literally anything? Since when did magic somehow impede your ability to believe in a deity? Like, what on earth do those things have to do with each other? Granted, the Chant has verses about magic and mages being a danger or whatever but there’s nothing that says mages can’t believe.

Although, I don’t know the full Chant of Light, so I wouldn’t know.

“I don’t see how that makes you not a good Andrastian,” I told him flatly.

He let out a shout of bitter laughter. “Have you not heard the Chant?”

“If you’re talking about that _magic serves man_ part-”

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children,” Alexander quoted back at me a little sourly. “They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones, and they shall find no rest in this world, or the beyond.”

I blinked several times in surprise. “You… know it by heart?”

“They tend to make a point of teaching the Canticle of Transfigurations in the Circle.”

“…oh. Right. They would, yeah.”

And that seemed to be the end of the conversation. I waited, but Alex didn’t seem to want to say any more. I don’t think he was in much of a mood for talking. But he’s acting all quiet and reserved and depressed – more so than usual, I mean. There’s a part of him that wants to talk about it. I just have to incessantly prod him until he eventually realises it’s there.

Turns out, I needn’t have bothered.

“What about you?” he asked me suddenly, quirking an eyebrow. “Are you Andrastian?”

I glanced away, no entirely sure how to answer. I’ve been religious all my life; I’ve always believed in God – or at least, the idea of Him. I found that anything less was too terrifying to consider. But, that wasn’t what he was asking. He wanted to know if I was _Andrastian._ And while you’d have to be some kind of idiot to fail to see the parallels between Dragon Age’s Chantry and the Church, they’re not the same thing. The Maker and God are not the same deity.

But, I always liked to play as though the Maker was real. Within the realm of the games, then yes. I was Andrastian. I certainly always played as one (with my humans, anyway – on account of my Dalish elves being, well, _Dalish,_ and everyone else was pretty much agnostic at best), albeit, a mildly tortured one. I guess I just found it more interesting to add that layer of internal conflict to my characters. Alexander is only a testament to that fact, being an Andrastian Circle mage – something I’d never been before in the Dragon Age universe, what with Hawke being an apostate if a mage at all and me really, _really_ not liking being a mage in Origins. For reasons.

Alright, I admit it, it’s because of the mage origin. I just don’t like Jowan, but I can’t ever bring myself to betray him, because of my unrelenting drive to be the flawless, trustworthy, all-loving hero I feel Thedas really needs me to be. I don’t like stabbing my friends in the back. Even if they’re only my friend purely because the game tells me they’re my friend.

Curse my infernal morals and compulsive habit of general do-gooding.

None of that really helps find an answer to Alexander’s question, however.

How _do_ I answer that?

“I believe the Maker exists,” I managed finally. “Does that make me Andrastian?”

He looked away. “I suppose it does.”

My eyes narrowed at his tone – quiet and sullen, he almost sounded defeated. Like he was disappointed to learn that I had any modicum of faith at all. I guess it’s not hard to imagine why. He’s only being lauded as the Chosen One (or accused of being a mass murderer, I guess) by almost everyone he’s met since the Conclave. In his place, I’d be a little more reserved too.

“You’re having a crisis of faith,” I observed.

He let out a breathless chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe. Or I could just be incredibly perceptive.”

“Wow. I must be really obvious.”

“You’re a _shit,”_ I replied, not really in the mood for this kind of thing. I know it’s all just playful banter, nothing more. Sometimes I can deal with it. Sometimes I can’t. Or I don’t want to. Or don’t feel like it.

Alexander didn’t really seem to be into it, either. His offhand comment was probably more for my sake than anything else. Despite the fact that he’s an asshole, he’s distinctly less snarky than any of my other canon protagonists… who I’m now realising all seem to be human men with noble ties.

I play as non-humans. I play as women. Sometimes. I swear.

“So…?” I prompted quietly, leaning over his shoulder to look at the little Andrastian shrine.

Alexander didn’t move. “So?”

“You want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

That’s a lie.

That is quite possibly the biggest lie you’ve ever told anyone, ever, and you _know_ it, Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan.

Oh my god I can’t believe he’s _actually called that…_

“There’s _obviously_ something to talk about,” I argued, gesturing vaguely at him.

“I didn’t realise you knew me so well.”

I folded my arms. “I know you well enough to know when you’re acting depressed. Out with it.”

A pause.

An agonisingly long pause, because oh my god, we just haven’t had enough of those.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know why, out of absolutely everyone who’d been at the Conclave, why it had to be me.”

Oh, great. Existential crisis time. I was wondering when that would come up.

This is excruciating.

This is possibly the most physically painful conversation I’ve ever had, with anyone, ever. And it’s with a figment of my imagination while in a delusionary world of my own making.

Joy.

“Who was it?” I asked finally, no longer able to take it, I have to know. I _need_ to know.

Alexander jerked away from me in surprise. “What?”

“You lost someone at the Conclave,” I stated flatly. “Who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he told me quickly, getting to his feet and beginning to head back to his cabin, all in a rush, as if he was desperate to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Wow. He must really not want to talk about it.

Well, tough.

 _“Alex,”_ I called his name harshly, like an exasperated parent struggling to deal with a problematic toddler on the verge of throwing a tantrum.

Surprisingly apt description of our relationship is surprisingly apt.

He stopped dead in his tracks, before rolling his shoulders back and letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

“His name was Matthias,” he told me quietly, slowly turning around to face me. “We were in the Circle together.”

I blinked. “A good friend, I take it?”

Alex looked away. “…yeah. Something like that.”

There was a brief pause as he grew strangely distant, before his eyes slid back to me.

“And Sanford, as well – he was the First Enchanter at Ostwick. He was the one who asked me to go in the first place. Apparently _Trevelyan family ties_ were just that damn important. Like somehow that was supposed to protect everyone I was with.”

“Have you got family in the Order?”

I’m going to regret asking that.

I am _really_ going to regret it, I know.

Alex nodded stiffly. “A few uncles, a couple of aunts. A dozen or so cousins. I saw some of them at the Conclave, actually. I… suppose they’re all dead now, too.”

Oh, that’s…

That’s _shit._

That’s actually quite significantly shit.

I’m struggling to wrap my head around just how amazingly shitty that must be for him. And it only seems to be hitting him now. I don’t suppose that’s terribly surprising. He’s not had a lot of time to stop and think since the Conclave; what with being a criminal, then the Herald of Andraste, and getting roped into the Inquisition.

Alex, meanwhile, had begun pacing back and forth in front of me.

“I didn’t see Nathan, though. I don’t know if he was at the Conclave – maybe he was and I just missed him. I wrote to Violet, but I don’t think she knows where he is any more than I do. It’s not like we’ve really kept in contact much since the rebellion. I didn’t see him in Val Royeaux either, but that only tells me that he’s not in the company that follows the Lord Seeker around. Maker, he could still be in _Cumberland,_ for all I know.”

I coughed a little. “Okay. Back up. Who are we talking about?”

He seemed to snap out of a trance at my words. “What? Oh – right. Sorry. My brother. He’s also a templar.”

His brother.

His brother the templar.

Oh, that’s not going to complicate anything, at _all._

“Your brother?” I repeated in a somewhat strangled voice. “You think your brother was at the Conclave?”

“I don’t know _where_ he is,” Alex told me, clearly agitated by this lack of knowledge. “I haven’t spoken to him for almost six years. Last I heard, he was assigned to the Circle in Cumberland.”

“You haven’t spoken to him in _six years?”_

“He was in _Nevarra.”_

“You didn’t even write?” I asked sceptically. “You seem to be pretty in-touch with the rest of your family.”

He let out a long, tired groan. “We had a fight.”

“And that led you to… just cutting ties? For _six years?”_

“It was a bad fight,” he said, getting defensive now.

“I can imagine,” I murmured, before rethinking it. “Wait, no. No I can’t.”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck, chewing his lip as he debated whether or not to tell me the gory details of this apparently super intense fight he had with his brother. He seemed torn; torn between wanting me to understand and wanting to keep his family drama somewhat private. He seemed to be objectively aware that it would likely not remain so for long, not with his growing fame and general notoriety. Word out of the Hinterlands is that the refugees there are already practically singing his praises. I suppose they would.

Finally, he seemed to give up the secrecy. “Things haven’t been _great_ between us for a long time. It got to a point where we just… stayed out of each other’s way.”

The mage and his templar brother who spectacularly fail to get along and in the end, don’t talk for years until a total catastrophe forces them together. Jesus. That is _so_ Garrett and Carver I don’t even know where to begin. Is my subconscious really that unimaginative? I mean, in _my_ version of events, Carver was a _Grey Warden_ and I made them kind of sort of mostly get over themselves and try to treat each other as human beings who are equally worthy of respect, but still.

“Why do you care?” I asked.

His lip curled. “He’s still my brother. Just because we don’t get along, doesn’t mean I want him _dead.”_

I sighed. “You want to go after the templars.”

For the longest time, he didn’t answer. He stared mindlessly off into the distance, a million miles away. Wondering about his brother. Desperate for answers he may not ever find. Because even if he does go to Therinfal Redoubt, it may be too late anyway. His brother may already be dead.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely after what felt like forever, his voice cracking just slightly.

And there it is. There’s the person who remains in defiance of my characterisation of him. There’s the man who will forge his own path, regardless of the one I’ve taken in his place. There’s a mage who will throw away the entire mage rebellion just to protect a family that may already be gone.

“Find your brother, Alex,” I told him gently.

He whirled back around to face me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. He obviously expected me to say something else. Not all that surprising – I’ve been somewhat vocal in my support of mages. Any person who knows me would expect me to fight him on this.

So why am I not fighting him on this?

Because I can’t expect anyone to sacrifice their family for what I think is right. He’s already lost so many people, I can’t force him to sacrifice more. I can’t ask that of him, of anyone.

And if he doesn’t go, if he doesn’t try, there may be something far worse than a corpse waiting for him.


	11. Do I Dare Disturb The Universe

Alexander didn’t seem to make any mention of the conversation we’d had the previous night as he circled me, the tip of the blade just barely trailing across the snow, waiting for me to attack. Waiting to see if I’d do it right this time. I kept my eyes on him, trying to watch for an opening, even if I had no idea what it would be.

“So,” I began, uncomfortable with the intense silence.

Alexander, being true to his natural habit of talking during combat, immediately responded. “So?”

Think of something that will spark a conversation, please, God, _think of something that will spark a conversation,_ I don’t want to do this awkward silence stuff anymore we’re supposed to be friends now shouldn’t we be past this I need to talk about something, _anything_ oh please dear lord give me something to say that he’ll actually engage with, I’m begging you…

“I was reading something written by Philliam-”

I cut off when I saw Alexander’s expression immediately shift into one of complete and utter exasperation. I couldn’t understand why he’d react like that.

“If your next words are anything along the lines of _‘a bard’…”_ he began with a long, exhausted groan.

He knows where this conversation is headed. He absolutely knows. He’s running through every possible question I could have, and his answers to them all. He’s probably had this exact same conversation with a hundred different people over the course of his life. It wouldn’t surprise me.

“I hear he’s a Trevelyan.”

“You’re asking me if we’re related.”

I nodded. “Yes, okay, yes I am.”

Alexander stopped dead in his tracks and let out an enormous sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and apparently wishing he was absolutely anywhere but here.

“Yes,” he replied somewhat shortly. “We’re cousins.”

We’ve barely been talking about this for thirty seconds and already he’s clearly in need of either a subject change, or a return to the previous silence.

But I’m not okay with silence right now.

So I’m going to push it.

That, and there’s a part of me that finds this too funny to drop.

“Get that a lot, I take it?”

He let out a shout of bitter laughter. “You have _no_ idea.”

“I get the feeling you don’t approve of him.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then…?”

“You’d be surprised how many fans of Genitivi there are in the Circle. And how many of them are willing to blame everything Philliam churns out on me the second they find out we’re related.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. That’s just way too funny. “Do you talk to him much?”

“No. I’ve only met him once or twice.”

“But he’s your cousin!”

“I have _a lot_ of cousins,” he pointed out dryly. “And I’m not exactly a permanent fixture in family affairs. It’s impossible to keep up with everyone.”

“Well _yeah,_ but-”

“Look, are we here to train or not?” he asked flatly, clearly wanting to move on from the subject of his family. “Why do we never end up talking about _your_ family?”

“Mine’s not half as interesting,” I countered, very carefully.

“See, I thought the same thing about mine, but you seem _incredibly_ interested nonetheless.”

I sighed. “What’s there to say? I’m the younger of two sisters. I have eleven cousins, total. None of them are famous writers.”

“I wouldn’t call Philliam a _writer,”_ Alex said dryly. “What about your parents?”

…don’t live with me at present, leaving just myself and Chloe to fend for ourselves which is fine and normal because we’re both adults and supposed to be perfectly capable of looking after ourselves? How do I translate that in proper, normal sounding _Dragon-Ageiness?_

I looked away. “Gone. It’s just me and my sister.”

Alexander let out a quiet sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

My brow creased before I realised just how heavily my words insinuated a grizzly death on the part of my parents. It was a reasonable assumption to make, since in Thedas, _gone_ seems to mean _they died a long time ago._ There was no point in correcting him, at any rate. Not like my parents are going to show up in my own delusion.

Which is of course, exactly when they show up in my delusion.

Anxiously, I glanced around, just waiting for it to happen.

…no? Nothing? My mind is going to let me get away with my complicated web of lies?

I waved it off like it was nothing. “It’s fine. Happened a long time ago.”

Holy _shit_ that is the biggest piece of bullshit I’ve ever spouted. And it’s only going to get worse. If I just say they both died of a wasting disease – those were popular in the Middle Ages, weren’t they – many years ago, no one’s going to question it, right? _Right?_

Can we not talk about this so I can take a moment to get my lies straight first?

Time for a subject change?

Time for a subject change.

To _what,_ Emily?

How about to the impending story quest that can only end badly? You know, that mission where Alexander is a mage in Therinfal Redoubt surrounded by axe-crazy templars who’ve been corrupted by red lyrium and take orders from an envy demon? Which is a super gross looking spindly thing with too many arms and a creepy as balls not-quite-a-face? That, you know, _tries to possess and imitate the Herald?_

He should know. He _needs_ to know. He needs to be prepared.

Oh yeah, sure. And what do I say, exactly? How do I even _start_ that conversation?

“Any luck with getting an audience with the Lord Seeker?” I asked, as airily as I could, while trying to also think of a way to covertly warn him about Envy.

Because I’ve played this game a lot, so of course I’ve done the templar story line. There’s a part of me that even prefers it to the mage story line. Granted, it’s a part of me that I _hate,_ but it _is_ a part of me. There’s just something strangely compelling about the way it happens, fighting off a demonic possession (of a sort) in the middle of a pitched battle, particularly if your character is a mage.

Which, _surprise,_ he totally is.

He needs to be prepared for it. He needs to expect something to go wrong. If he doesn’t, if they catch him completely unawares, a mage in the middle of a fortress crawling with templars… oh no. I don’t want to think about it. He’s just going to have to be on guard.

And not completely fall apart should it transpire his brother is not able to be saved.

God knows how that’s going to end up going down.

“Josie’s working on it,” he told me flatly.

Wait.

Wait, _what?_

Back up.

Back the _fuck_ up.

My eyebrows rose. _“Josie?”_

He blinked several times. “W-what? Oh. Right. I mean, Josephine. The ambassador. Ambassador Montilyet.”

“Yes, the ambassador,” I murmured, doing my best to sound carefully nonchalant. “She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she is,” Alexander replied somewhat distantly, before shaking his head and seemingly snapping back into reality. “Not that it matters. Except when it does. I mean, she’s nice. And good at her job. And polite. Which she’d have to be, because, you know. She’s a diplomat.”

He kept his head down after saying this, shifting ever so slightly and not at all self-consciously in the snow. I just folded my arms, mildly amused. Jesus Christ, he’s worse than Cullen. Here I honestly didn’t believe that was even possible.

“Alex,” I called his name carefully. “Alexander Trevelyan, for the sake of your health and my sanity, _please_ stop trying to play it cool.”

His head snapped up at my words. “What?”

“Because you’re being so obvious I’m reasonably sure a blind man could see it.”

“See _what?”_

“That you like her,” I pointed out dryly.

“I don’t,” he snapped back, suddenly aggressive. “Emilia, listen to me. I _don’t_ have feelings for her. I don’t have feelings for _anyone.”_

Well _that_ escalated quickly.

Who is he trying to convince – me, or himself? Because he’s not really succeeding at either.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Okay, _why_ are you so defensive all of a sudden?”

“Why does it _matter?”_

I sighed and raised my hands defensively, though the gesture didn’t work nearly as well as it should’ve, on account of me still holding a sword and shield. “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. So long as you realise that you’re not fooling anybody.”

And Leliana is sure to have quite the stern word with you over it eventually, because she can’t help but turn into an aggressive protective big sister when it comes to Josephine. Which didn’t frighten me in the games much. But thinking about it now… is it bad that part of me is genuinely worried for Alex’s welfare?

His lip curled and he ultimately chose not to grace that with an answer.

Because apparently, the Herald of Andraste has decided to act like a total child today, for some unfathomable reason.

Realising that I wasn’t going to get any further with that, I resigned myself to doing some actual training and general strenuous physical exercise. I mean, I’m still going to talk, about something, about _anything._ Because that’s what we do. I try to beat the shit out of him and he effortlessly dodges me and critiques everything I do while simultaneously managing to beat the absolute shit out of _me_ right back. I like to think I’m getting better. Alex seems to think that’s an optimistic view of it.

“So, how would I go about besting a mage?” I asked casually, twirling my blade in my hand, trying to get used to the weight. I was very slowly getting marginally better at fencing, and I’d witnessed magic enough times to feel maybe a little more comfortable around – well, not really, because it’s terrifying and dangerous and unpredictable and that’s not even accounting for the constant threat of demons – but so far Alex had carefully rebuffed me every time I asked about fighting against a magical opponent. I mean, technically, I was _always_ fighting a magical opponent, since my sparring partner happened to be a mage, but he made a point of carefully avoiding ever using it around me. I think he was scared he’d end up repeating history.

For once, Alexander didn’t smile. He didn’t even try.

Given his mood, I’m not surprised.

Why am I surprised?

“You don’t,” he told me bluntly. “Stance.”

I rolled my eyes and fell back into the familiar defensive stance he always had me take prior knocking me flat on my ass.

“We’re in the middle of a mage rebellion,” I pointed out as I made a stab at him. “Someday, I’m going to have to learn.”

He let out a groan and casually moved his staff to block. “Alright, fine. If you see a hostile mage on the field, you run for your life and go get a templar.”

“Funny,” I drawled, pulling back to reassess my plan of attack.

“I’m _not_ joking,” he told me seriously. “Mages are too dangerous for normal soldiers to engage. Even a novice mage could kill you with very little effort-” he cut off as the wood of his staff struck me across the back once more, “dead. _Again._ You need to focus.”

“I _am_ focusing,” I growled at him impatiently. “And shouldn’t a mage’s extra-deadliness be _more_ of a reason to learn to defend myself against them?”

“You’re planning to become a templar?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Then forget it. Templars are the only ones qualified to take on mages in combat; and even _they_ have a hard time,” he reasoned.

“Now you’re just descending into open boasting,” I told him. _“Oh, mages are soooo powerful, you couldn’t possibly hope to handle an apprentice, let alone me…”_

He didn’t appreciate that in the slightest. “Do you remember the _last_ time I started casting during one of these training sessions?”

“Yes, I remember. That was you cheating.”

“Emilia, if you honestly think a mage isn’t going use their abilities at every available opportunity just to get the upper hand, you’ve got even more to learn than I thought.”

“You have a very high opinion of your kin, I see.”

His lip curled at my jab. “I’m realistic. Some people aren’t equipped to deal with that kind of power. Believe me. I’ve seen what it does to people.”

His expression swiftly darkened as he said this, and he grew strangely distant. He was so distant, in fact, that he didn’t see me swing, and moved far too slowly to even hope to block the attack. The blunted edge of the sword struck him hard in the side, with so much force he staggered, throwing his staff into the ground in some vague attempt to give himself some support. He was too late however, and the staff slipped in the snow, sending him crashing right to the ground.

I grinned euphorically. _“Dead,_ Alexander.”

Oh, you have _no idea_ how much I’ve wanted to say that to him.

I clicked my tongue and shook my head disapprovingly. “Not very focused to day. Maybe you should listen to your own advice.”

He glanced up at me, and instead of saying something snappish like I expected, he gave a small, mildly forced smile.

“You’re improving,” he noted quietly, clambering back to his feet. “We might be getting somewhere after all.”

“You know, you _can_ just be nice and compliment me without being all back-handed about it.”

He ignored that.

Oh _man_ he’s not in a good mood today.

“So,” I began, looking at him expectantly.

 _“So?”_ he shot back, watching me back, a little more wary than before.

“I won. You’re supposed to teach me how to fight against magic now.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“No need for you to agree. I won, and I demand training in fighting magic as my reward.”

“That’s… not how this works. That’s literally not how anything works.”

“Can’t you humour me? Just for a _second?”_

He let out a frustrated sigh and began rubbing the back of his neck incessantly. “You know, I’m really not the best person to ask. You may want to reconsider your stance on Cullen. He used to be a templar, after all.”

“Oh for- I don’t _want_ to be a templar, okay? I’m just looking for tips. You’re a mage. I figure you would have some.”

Alexander rolled his shoulders back and worked his head back and forth, trying to iron out some crink in his neck and seriously debating whether to simply give up arguing with me.

And then, finally;

“The best way to fight a mage is to try to attack from stealth. Surprise them. If they know you’re there, you’re probably already dead. They’re just toying with you otherwise.”

“Well, don’t they sound like a fun bunch.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You wanted to know.”

“Have _you_ fought mages? Other mages?”

He nodded. “A few. The crazier rebels, mostly. _Berserker_ and _mage_ is not a good combination. Felt like they were constantly inches away from becoming abominations.”

“And you couldn’t let that happen,” I observed, unable to keep the mild accusing tone out of my voice.

It’s not my fault! It’s just, the more I talk to him about this, the more I realise just how low his opinion of mages and the rebellion really is. I’m sorry if I didn’t quite anticipate my _mage_ being so… so… _pro-Circle._

Eugh. It pains me even to think it.

Emily. Have you actually _asked_ him about his opinion? On the rebellion, on the Circle, on _any_ of it? Do you even _know_ what he thinks, or are you just making wild assumptions again?

But he’s going after the templars!

To _save_ his _brother._

 _My_ Alex wouldn’t-

He _is_ your Alex. This is all some insane drug-induced delusion where everything here is just a mental construct. Whatever decisions you made in the game don’t matter. Because this is the character as you imagine him to be. Everything about him, about his experiences, about the way he thinks and his opinions – it all comes from _you._ He’s not breaking anything. All this is, is using ideas you’ve already thrown around when you were sort of half-heartedly trying to build his character. Think about it – templars in the family? Friends and family lost at the Conclave? Frustrated over being forced into a situation beyond his control; by the rebellion, by the Conclave, by the _Inquisition?_ They’re all things you’ve thought about. They’re all things that have crossed your mind.

I bit my lip and tried not to sigh.

That’s true.

That’s _all_ true.

Dammit.

Alexander, to his credit, didn’t snap at me, like I half expected him to.

“I know what abominations are capable of,” he murmured, his mind clearly a thousand miles away now. “And I know you don’t have to be possessed to do something reprehensible.”


	12. Even When The Room Went Dark

“We certainly do take all sorts, don’t we?” Nell asked, mostly to herself, as she stared aimlessly at the stein in her hand.

“What do you mean?” I responded as I took a tentative sip of my own beverage, only to find that it was just as gross as expected. “Ugh, this tastes like dog piss.”

But on the upside, it’s full of alcohol. Lovely, beautiful, totally-not-a-bad-idea alcohol. Distract me from the fantasy reality I’ve become trapped in for literally no freaking reason. Unless that reason is _‘you’re totally delusional and this is you experiencing a severe psychotic break’_ or something like that. And here I didn’t think I was even close to having one. Shows how much I know.

Nell smirked. “Have a lot of experience with that sort of thing, do you?”

I pulled a face at her. “I have an active imagination.”

Ha. _Active,_ she says. _Over-active and fuelled by probably drugs,_ more like it. I mean, that’s what it has to be, right? There’s no other reason why a delusion would’ve lasted this long. Maybe I’m being kept in a medically-induced coma, and that’s why I can’t wake up.

And, _no,_ it’s not real, because it _can’t_ be real, if I play this game so much I have dreams about it, then there’s no reason why I wouldn’t play this game so much and this turns out to be my happy place when reality proves too overwhelmingly shit for me to handle.

Because that makes sense.

How bad does the _real_ world have to be for me to genuinely prefer the _magical fantasy land_ with _demons_ and _fucking terrorists_ (Anders) who are _mages_ (Anders) on top of being _terrorists (Anders)_ and real, actual, fire-breathing _dragons_ that’s constantly on the verge of total _war_ and – I cannot possibly stress this enough – happens to be repeatedly plagued by, you know, the _Blights?_ And then there’s the ongoing consequences of the whole mage-templar thing, and the fact that the Veil is in literal pieces, and the Orlesian Civil War, and the inescapable conclusion that just about every problem that exists right now depends solely on the whims of some random guy in his mid-twenties who has _no political experience whatsoever._

The real world was never supposed to get to that point. Because Thedas? It’s _fucked up._ It’s so impossibly screwed that the fact that I can’t decide which world I prefer right now is really disturbing.

I can’t think about this right now. If I consider it for more than a couple of seconds, I’m going to puke.

“Besides, _you’re_ the Fereldan here,” I pointed out. “If either of us has experience with dog piss, it’s you.”

Nell laughed. “Now that you mention it.”

“Ladies, _ladies,_ please,” a voice called as a man approached our table and eased himself down next to Nell. “There’s no need to fight; there’s plenty of me to go around.”

Nell rolled her eyes dramatically at me. “Shut your idiot mouth, Harlan. We were discussing matters of _utmost importance,_ none of which concern you.”

His eyebrows rose. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Booze,” I told him cheerfully, taking another sip.

“Dog piss too,” Nell added just as brightly.

He pulled a face at that. “Maker, do you Fereldans talk about _anything_ else?”

“Ignoring the fact that Emilia _isn’t_ Fereldan,” Nell shot back, her eyes sliding to me and giving a small, sly wink, “of course we do. We grouse about Orlesians.”

“And they gush about their dogs,” I interjected.

“Not to mention that time we were occupied by Orlais.”

“Mabari.”

“The nonsensical fascination Orlesians have with masks.”

“War hounds.”

“Nobility.”

 _“Orlesian_ nobility.”

“Dogs, too.”

“Big dogs.”

“Aggressive dogs.”

“Dogs the size of hyenas.”

“Oh, and sometimes, we discuss the _Blight,_ too,” Nell finished, now grinning and trying not to giggle as she downed the last of her drink. “Did you know a _Fereldan_ Grey Warden killed the Archdemon, Harlan? We call him the Hero of _Ferelden._ Everyone’s very proud.”

“Champion of Kirkwall’s a Fereldan too,” I pointed out.

Nell nodded. “That’s true. He duelled the Arishok.”

“And _won.”_

Nell let out a wistful and glanced back over to Harlan, who was looking at us like we were both totally insane. Neither of us seemed to care, having too much fun as it was. Not that either of us even knew what we were saying anymore. The conversation had well since passed that point.

This is the part where I come to the terrifying realisation that I’ve managed to imbibe more alcohol than originally planned.

Thankfully, Nell had drunk a little more than me, and was perfectly happy to keep Harlan’s attention on her.

“See, Harlan?” she called to him in a mock-scathing tone. “Everyone of remote importance for the last ten years has been a Fereldan. Even our _apostates_ end up saving _your_ cities from Qunari invasions. What does your _Free Marcher pride_ have to say to _that?”_

“The Herald’s a Marcher,” he pointed out, mildly defensively.

“Pfft, yeah, from _Ostwick._ Everyone _knows_ that’s basically Ferelden,” Nell argued, still laughing. “They’ve got a _teyrn_ and _everything._ Highever has a teyrn too, you know. His little brother killed an _Archdemon.”_

“You keep bringing that up,” I asked, noticing just how much she kept bringing the Warden up. “Do you _love_ him or something?”

 _“Shh!”_ she hissed, before bursting into a fit of giggles. “Oh… that takes me back. You know, I used to catch glimpses of him when I visited my aunt in the castle. He was _so cute._ All dark haired and athletic. _Mm._ And then he became a Warden and stopped the Blight…”

“Wouldn’t he be almost thirty by now?” Harlan asked, a little bemused at how mildly intoxicated she was acting. Not that I was a real picture of sobriety, either.

“Details.”

“He’s also, you know, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden,” I cut in.

 _“Details,”_ Nell repeated, more insistently this time.

“Not to mention the fact that no one knows where he is,” Harlan said, nodding slightly at me.

_“Deeeeeeetails.”_

“I’m pretty sure he’s married and has a kid, to boot,” I muttered, swishing my drink mindlessly.

My comment was met with a dead silence, and it took me a few seconds to realise what a major fuck up I’d just made.

Oh.

Oh _dear._

_Oh shit._

Nell blinked several times. Her head snapped up and she stared at me like I was totally insane.

 _“What?”_ she gasped, grabbing at the table and leaning as far as she could. “To _who?”_

“I- I dunno,” I gasped, trying to think of some way to get out of this hole I’d inexplicably dug for myself. “I just… you know… it- it was a rumour I heard. Yeah. A rumour. That’s it.”

Nell’s face immediately fell and she pulled back, waving me off. “Bah, _rumours._ They never mean anything.”

Harlan’s eyebrow arched. “What about all the rumours about our beloved Herald of Andraste?”

“Which rumours?” Nell shot back. “That he exploded the Conclave? Or that he’s the Chosen One? Oh – what about the one about him being a secret blood mage? _Oooh,_ did you hear the one about _necromancy?_ You know I heard someone say he’s related to that bard fellow who fancies himself as a scholar-”

My head hit the table with a loud _thunk._ I literally just had this conversation with Alex not even that long ago.

“Emilia? You alright?” I heard Harlan call from somewhere above me.

I straightened, and gave a small, weary grin. “What? Yeah. Fine. What were we talking about?”

“Your boyfriend,” Nell told me matter-of-factly.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I argued quietly.

“Then why do you spend so much time with him?”

“I don’t spend _that_ much time with him. We’re friends. We train together. Talk about our families a little. Sometimes, we argue about mages.”

Harlan let out a shout of laughter. “Can’t imagine that gets you very far. Trying to argue with mages is like talking to a wall. They don’t care for anything but their own freedoms.”

“He’s actually pro-Circle,” I pointed out dryly. “He was headed out to Therinfal Redoubt to talk to the Lord Seeker with a horde of Orlesian nobles last I heard.”

There was a pause. A pause in which Nell didn’t react because she was already privy to this information and Harlan’s eyes went wide with shock and surprise. I smiled grimly.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you?”

He shrugged. “Seems our Herald is just full of surprises.”

That he is. I can’t argue with that. He even manages to surprise _me,_ and _I’m_ the one who slaved away in the character creator for a full half hour, obsessing over his stupidly handsome face.

“Well,” Nell began brightly. “I wanna meet her.”

I glanced over to her, thoroughly confused. “What?”

“Lord Cousland’s alleged wife,” she clarified. “I want to meet her. I want to know what kind of woman managed to bring him down.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “You’re not going to like the answer.”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “Says you.”

I sighed and leaned back, closing my eyes and taking time to relish this moment, to bask in the blissful nothingness and general simplicity of it. Revelling in the fact that I’d managed to make friends here – real friends, _good_ friends, friends I can laugh and drink with, friends who were nothing more than nameless mooks in the game. It’s so nice to finally know some of them. To know their names. To know that they’ll laugh and make banter and lightly tease one another.

It means so much to me. It means more to me than I ever thought it would.


	13. The Light Of All Lights

“It’s not up for debate!” I heard Alexander shout furiously as he charged through Haven, absolutely fuming and probably mere seconds away from accidentally causing something to violently explode. I always forget how utterly terrifying the prospect of being anywhere near an angry mage is. And then I see one and he’s gripping his staff so tightly I can see his knuckles whiten and there are small tongues of flame licking the wood and I’m ninety-eight percent sure something is going to spontaneously combust in three… two… _one…_

Not five feet from where Alex stood, a sack burst into flames, the hessian curling up into nothing more than smoke. Several people jumped away from the commotion, while Alex remained rooted to the spot, completely unfazed. I suppose he would be. It’s _his_ magic. He doesn’t have much reason to fear it as, oh let’s say, _everybody else who isn’t a mage themselves._

It’s funny. You never realise how insanely dangerous mages are until you’re actually in close quarters with one. And yeah, he’s my friend, and _yeah,_ I trust him, but that doesn’t negate the fact that he literally just exploded a sack with magic because he’s _angry._

Most normal folk would just punch a wall.

“The fact of the matter is, you have _no idea_ what that creature is!” came the harsh reply. “We cannot expect-”

“He saved my damn _life,_ Cass!” he cut across her furiously. “From a blighted _envy demon!_ What more do you _want?”_

It was the first time I’d seen Alexander actually out and about since finally returning from Therinfal Redoubt. Which was saying something. Because it’s been days.

With a furious and unintelligible growl, Alex turned heel headed towards the main gates into Haven. Cassandra, obviously not finished arguing, immediately tore after him, although she carefully avoided the scorch marks along the ground as she did so. In what seemed like no time at all, they were gone, leaving everyone who’d bore witness to the outburst standing there in confusion and shock.

“Well,” Nell began, poking her head out from around a corner. “That was certainly something.”

I stared aimlessly off into the direction they’d disappeared in, at a loss. “I’ve never seen him that angry before.”

“Any idea who they’re arguing about?”

Cole, probably. No one else immediately springs to mind when someone mentions _saved my life_ and _envy demon_ in the same sentence. And he _is_ the one to help you out of the Fade. I can’t really remember specifics – it’s been a really long time since I’ve played the templar story. Once. Because I was curious. Then I felt bad because the mages got conscripted into the Venatori and I had to kill Fiona. Which I felt bad about. Because she’s Alistair’s mum. She’s an _idiot,_ and he doesn’t know, but she’s Alistair’s mum.

And now that’s what’s going to happen.

Because stupid Alexander had to go after his stupid brother and ally with the stupid templars even though that’s _stupid_ because he’s a _mage_ and my black and white concrete obviously-haven’t-actually-thought-through-the-political-problems-of-Thedas-and-potential-implications-enough thinking can’t handle that.

So, the envy demon. The gross looking fleshy too-many-arms-not-enough-face envy demon.

And Cole.

I stopped dead.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh _shit._

Jesus Christ fucking shit oh my god no.

_Cole._

Oh god.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh my good fucking _god._

No no no no _no…_

I wasn’t even aware that any time had passed by in reality until I felt Nell’s hand on my shoulder. My head snapped to see her standing there, looking genuinely concerned for my welfare. Because she’s like that. She’s _nice._ All the people here are so _nice_ and that’s so against everything I thought I knew about these people and I feel so shit for never thinking about the random Inquisition foot soldier mooks before.

I have to see if Nell’s still in the game, as a faceless soldier once I get back. Oh, and Harlan. And Vance. And anyone else who bothers to join our little group of sorts. I like our little friendship clique. It’s such a gosh darn shame it’s not real.

None of this is real.

The more I think about that these days, the more it distresses me.

“Emilia?” she called softly, apparently concerned I was about to faint. Or collapse into a heap just generally.

I am so _not_ ready to navigate a conversation with a mind reading spirit of compassion who can make me forget it ever happened.

 _Remember that,_ I reinforced to myself. _Remember him._

Just… don’t attract his attention. Don’t have hurts. Don’t be depressed. Don’t have problems. Don’t think about any of it. Don’t think about how that’s so impossible you don’t even know where to begin.

More or less impossible than being here in the first place? More or less impossible than watching someone explode a sack with their mind – to which the only valid explanation for how in the hell he’s able to do that being literally _…magic!_

I shook my head and waved her off, trying to act nonchalant. “Sorry, what?”

She groaned. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

And we descended into silence once more.

It didn’t last too terribly long, however.

“So which templar is his brother, do you think?” she asked suddenly.

Because yes, maybe I did tell her about that. And maybe it wasn’t the best thing I ever did, but Alex is so busy these days and who else am I supposed to talk to?

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not overly familiar with the Trevelyans.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been introduced yet. Isn’t it customary to meet the family of your beloved?”

“Nell, if you keep this up, I’m going to start a rumour about _you and Harlan,”_ I ground out furiously.

She pouted. “Really? Come on. I’m pairing you with the bloody _Herald of Andraste,_ the absolute _least_ you could do is make it someone _interesting.”_

“I’m not making up a rumour about you having an illicit affair with the Hero of Ferelden,” I deadpanned.

“Spoilsport. What about a monarch?”

I would ask to which she’s referring, but I have a feeling I already know. King of Ferelden. Happens to be Maric’s bastard. Had to get pushed into ruling by third parties. Likes cheese, witty one-liners and trading barbs with some apostate sneaky witch-thief called Morrigan. Used to be a Grey Warden. Fought in the Blight. Thinks swooping is bad. Goes by… oh I don’t know, some random super common name, like _Alistair._

Am I right? Tell me I’m right.

I’m so right.

Alistair just can’t get away from the fangirl horde, even in-universe.

“For the love of everything, _please_ tell me you’re not talking about who I think you’re talking about.”

She huffed, disappointed, before folding her arms and gazing out into the distance. “You, Emilia, are _no_ fun. Although…”

She trailed off, staring aimlessly off in the direction Alexander had stormed off. My eyebrows rose critically.

“Although?” I prompted, even though I knew I was going to regret asking.

“I was talking to Isla-” she began, only to cut off when I snorted with laughter.

“You soak up gossip like no man’s business, you know that?”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “Like old fishwives, we are. Seems like we’d both be better of spying for the Nightingale, rather beating other people with swords. But that’s not the _point._ Anyway, Isla was delivering something to that elven mage girl a few weeks ago – you know, the shy one who studies creatures and hangs out with tranquil?”

“Minaeve.”

“Yes! That’s her name.”

“Minaeve doesn’t seem the type to gossip with people like Isla.”

 _“She_ wasn’t – but our beloved Herald was chatting with the ambassador, and Isla was pretty positive he was being… very _affectionate_ towards her.”

I groaned. Loudly.

Nell looked a little surprised at my reaction. “What?”

“You went to all that effort to tell me Isla overheard Alexander flirting with Josephine?”

Like I even needed to be told that.

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so boring. I think it’s _sweet.”_

She’s a shipper on deck, to be sure. Didn’t actually think that would happen. But then again, everything about this place is a mental construction, including her. Maybe she’s just embodying my own obsessiveness over Alex and Josie’s blossoming romance. I just wish I could ask Alex about it without him completely switching off and pretending none of it is real. I mean, he’s not exactly _subtle._ Even if I didn’t have the fore-knowledge that I do, I’d be able to pick that up. After all, Nell did.

But there’s only so much of this conversation I can take.

I stretched a little, stifling a huge yawn. “I’d better be off. Patrols, and all that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Bullshit, you have a patrol. You’re going to slink off to interrogate Ser Trevelyan, aren’t you?”

“Who His Worship decides to become entangled with is not my business,” I rebuked her tiredly. “There are more pressing matters at stake.”

She didn’t believe that, not for a second. “He’s not going to talk, you know. Been looking like a storm cloud ever since he got back.”

“I noticed that, thanks Nell,” I replied as I moved away, not looking back as I did so.

“If you get electrocuted to death, Emilia, know that it’s not my fault! I tried to warn you!”

I gave a little mock-salute without turning around, but otherwise didn’t answer her.

I pushed through Haven’s main gates, stumbling into the makeshift training yard where I easily spotted Cassandra stabbing wildly at a training dummy, apparently having long since given up on her previous argument with Alexander.

As for the Herald himself… I didn’t see him.

Anxiously smoothing out my uniform – annoying, not all that flattering, clearly something they mocked up very quickly – I trudged through the snow, towards the frozen lake as dark clouds swirled overhead. I didn’t really understand what that meant, weather-wise. It could’ve meant anything. An ominous foretelling of what was to come. Or, a sign that a mage with a penchant for storm magic was royally cracking the shits.

Did I ever mention that I tend to always spec my mages as lightning/storm focused?

Yeah.

I’ll mix it up with the specialisations (she says, when she has _one_ necromancer and _one_ rift mage and a _bunch_ of Knight Enchanters because _magic sword and literally the only healing spell in the game),_ but there’s something so cathartic about constantly spamming chain lightning and energy barrage in tandem with each other. And static cage, for crowd control. Then I get to Skyhold and boy howdy will I use every exploit at my disposal to get infinite skill points. Not that it matters, because I play on casual anyway.

I’m not a lazy cheat, you’re a lazy cheat.

I glanced up, just in time to see a bolt of lightning strike down at the cliffs on the opposite side of the lake, sending a significant amount of snow flying and shattering the rock. Debris rained down from the impact area, hitting the ice with so much force I could hear it, even from here.

I let out an exhausted sigh as I slipped down onto the ice, and began to carefully make my way towards the man who stood in the centre of the growing tempest that swirled around him.

Walking on ice is never a good idea.

It’s particularly not a good idea to do it in the middle of a lightning storm, against harsh and unrelenting winds.

Jesus Christ magic is so fucking terrifying.

And no one in Haven seems all that bothered. All just part of the parcel of a mage Herald of Andraste, I guess.

“Alex!” I shouted his name as I neared him. _“Alex!”_

He whirled around, his staff slipping from his grip and clattering on the ice. He was panting, barely holding together – there was a small cut on his forehead and a thin trail of blood ran down the side of his head. I didn’t bother asking. I knew he was never going to answer.

Almost immediately, the wind died down and the charge in the air that had built up around him dissipated, although the sky above continued to rumble dangerously. Apparently, the weather didn’t need his help to worsen.

“Is there any point in me asking if you’re okay?” I asked as I finally reached him.

He didn’t answer me.

I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder – some vague attempt at a comforting gesture – only to immediately pull back when I received a sharp zap of static when my hand got to about an inch from his coat. He barely reacted as I flinched back.

“Sorry,” he grunted, scraping his staff off the ice. “The charge lingers for a bit. Should’ve warned you.”

“Mage retains static electricity after throwing lightning around,” I mused quietly. “Probably should’ve seen that coming. Do I want to know what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“You are _not a good liar,_ Alexander Trevelyan.”

He shook his head and turned away. “He wasn’t there.”

I blinked several times. “What?”

“Nathan,” he told me shortly, bringing his staff forward with a wide, powerful swing as flames appeared along it, gently licking the wood before leaping from the staff and hitting the far cliffs with an earth-shatteringly loud _boom,_ sending snow, rocks, and shards of ice flying out in every direction.

“Your brother?” I asked, not sure what else to say.

He gritted his teeth and hurled his staff into the ice at his feet.

“He wasn’t there,” he repeated, softer this time. “Or he was, and I didn’t recognise him.”

“What are you talking about?”

Alex just shook his head. “You don’t really want to know.”

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? I already know. I already know everything. This is what I’d been so worried about coming true when I told him to go after the templars in the first place. This was exactly the pain I’d been trying to spare him. But there are red templars in Therinfal, either way. That’s just how the game goes. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that it might be too late, regardless.

I inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the feeling of almost overwhelming feeling of being punched in the gut.

Oh god.

I can’t help even figments of my imagination based on video game characters save what little family they have left.

God help me if I ever end up stuck in and mental reconstruction of _Dragon Age II._

I bit my lip. “You think he might’ve already been corrupted.”

By the time I realised what I’d just said, the words had already slipped from me, and there was no taking it back.

Shit.

Stop talking.

Stop it right now.

 _Why_ can I not stop _saying_ things like that?

Alex didn’t look back at me. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t even move.

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

“There was red lyrium in Kirkwall,” I suggested hopefully, before realising that, _idiot,_ I’m not supposed to know about red lyrium. _Or_ the details of what happened in Kirkwall.

Fuck.

Oh Jesus.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Cover = blown.

“What are you going to do?” I asked quickly, hoping to all the gods I know of that a sufficiently timed distraction would take his mind off me and my mysterious knowledge of things I absolutely should not have knowledge of.

Alex sighed heavily and began to pace, rubbing the back of his neck and looking more stressed than I had ever seen him.

“I have to find him,” he murmured after what felt like and possibly could’ve been forever.

“And if he’s… you know… what then?”

He stopped dead in his tracks, his back facing me. He didn’t turn. Too engrossed in the thought of that being a possibility, I suppose.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I know what I _should_ do, what he’d want, but… dammit, he’s my _brother!_ I can’t- …I can’t just… I don’t know. I don’t _know!”_

He screamed that last part, energy building up around him as he said the words, before thrusting his staff towards the sky. There was a thunderous _crack_ as a bolt of blinding white lightning shot upwards, with so much force the ice at our feet cracked. I staggered backwards as the wind picked up once again, sufficiently terrified.

You don’t understand why the people in Thedas are so determined to fear magic and mages until you’re actually there, experiencing it, looking up at the torn sky as thunder rolls overhead and you can still feel the residual heat from a bolt of lightning that was so close it should’ve killed you but it didn’t because, you know, it was created by a mage to start with.

The pure ease with which Alex could turn me into a smouldering pile of ash…

I shook my head. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Maybe if I get killed in a magic blast I’ll wake up in the real world. I’d do it, but I don’t have enough stake in that theory to try it out.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Alex murmured, exhausted and dejected now as his voice pulled me back into what was happening. “The _fucking rebellion…”_

My eyes narrowed. “What did the mage rebellion ever do to you?”

He laughed. And not the haha-funny-joke kind. The exceedingly bitter you-really-don’t-get-it-do-you kind.

“Where do I _start,”_ he asked mostly himself, a distinct edge in his voice. “It ruined my life. Killed my friends. Forced me on the run. Destroyed everything and everyone I ever cared about. And now it’s claimed my _family,_ on top of all that.”

“Alex-”

“Forget it,” he growled, walking away. “Go back to Haven. Tell Cassandra that if she wants to argue, she can find me out here.”

And with that, he was gone.


	14. And The Rest Is Rust And Stardust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so late and painfully short, I'm sorry. My excuse is... I'm trash and I don't have an excuse.

I stood there, alone on the ice, for maybe all of three seconds before charging after him. Because hell if I’m leaving it like that.

And we’re just going to skip the bit where I didn’t so much as _run_ as I did _clumsily struggle with all the coordination of Bambi in that ice skating scene_ because oh man, we really don’t need to be drawing attention to just how pathetically out of control I am when I can’t gain a good enough traction.

And here I have all these ideas of being able to leap into battle and not immediately die…

Immediately, I made a mental note to please practice the swordplay thing more often Emily, or you’re going to die.

“Alex,” I called after him when I finally managed to stumble off the frozen lake and on to solid ground. “Wait.”

Despite his mood, despite what I expected him to do, despite everything, he stopped, dead in his tracks, unmoving as he waited for me to catch up. I couldn’t tell if he was still upset. He probably was – but he wasn’t making a show of it anymore. He had his freak out, now he was ready to calm down, to compose himself and be the Herald of Andraste.

“He might still be fine,” I managed between desperate gasps for air. “Your brother, I mean. He might just be caught up with something else, and that’s why he wasn’t there. He could still be okay.”

Finally, he looked back at me, a small crooked smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “He could be. I’m just- I’m used to always expecting the worst, I guess.”

I don’t think he believes me. I don’t think he really believes he’s being irrational. I’m not sure I would in his place, either. It’s so hard to tell anymore.

Oh well.

At least he’s trying.

I moved towards him, only to slip and immediately fall. I just let myself go, not even bothering to break my fall, only twisting enough so I’d land on my back. I hit the ground with a hard _thud_ – snow absolutely is not the soft pillowy stuff I thought it would be, I need have words with Hollywood – and pain exploded across my back.

“…ow,” I moaned after too long.

Alex peered down at me, eyebrows knitted together with mild concern – aw, he _does_ care – glancing over me to check if I was injured.

“You okay?” he asked after a brief pause.

“I meant to do that.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he laughed. Actually laughed. Real laughter. He cracked a real, genuine smile and he laughed. It wasn’t loud or long anything, more of a chuckle than anything else, but there was some real mirth to his expression that I didn’t know how much I missed until I saw it again.

“Sure you did,” he drawled from above.

I rolled my eyes dramatically at him, before quickly electing to ignore the comment altogether. If fate would have me fall into snow, then I guess I’m just going to have to do what any self-respecting adult does when presented with one such situation.

“What… are you doing?” Alex asked incredulously, staring down at me with his eyebrows raised.

“Snow angel,” I answered simply.

The blank, confused expression on his face was pretty priceless. “Snow… what?”

“You don’t have those here?” I asked before I could stop myself. “All these intense Fereldan winters and you’ve never even thought of snow angels before?”

“I’m not Fereldan,” he pointed out dryly.

Right. Free Marcher. Yes. Obviously. I keep forgetting – two games of playing Fereldan characters, I got so used to it that I forget the Inquisitor isn’t one themselves.

“What, it doesn’t snow in Ostwick?”

“Not usually.”

I pursed my lips, a little unimpressed. “Please tell me this isn’t the first time you’ve seen real snow. You’re twenty-four years old, that’s just _sad.”_

He folded his arms, indignant. “I’ve seen snow before.”

“Before or _after_ you came south for the Conclave?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

After, then.

I sighed and sat up. _Someone’s_ going to have to teach him. Hell, if I have to teach all _Ferelden_ how to use snow for entertainment, then I guess I’ll have something else to do. On top of, you know, trying to casually but safely steer this particular version of the Inquisition through the events of the game. Which will be easier once the Herald of Andraste I’ve inexplicably (and entirely on purpose, of course) befriended is actually given the authority to go with his fancy title and figurehead status.

“Here,” I said, scrambling to my feet and pulling back so I could show him the imprint I’d left in the snow. “See?”

Alex remained as confused as ever. “What am I looking at?”

“The shape in the snow. Kind of looks like a person with wings, right? Where I come from, we call that a snow angel.”

His eyes narrowed. “…right. And where do you come from, exactly? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

Uh…

Dug yourself right into that one, Emily, nice going, you’re so astonishingly good at this.

“Oh, you know,” I began airily, trying way too hard to casually brush the question off. “Places.”

“Places that aren’t Ferelden, evidently.”

“Oh, what gave me away?”

He shrugged. “I’m going to say the accent.”

I expected him to push it, to say something more, ask a few questions, but that seemed to be it. He had nothing further to add, even though I’d given him absolutely nothing. He… seems to do that a lot. Ask questions and immediately drop them. Maybe it’s my own subconsciousness protecting me from my own delusion. That would make sense, right?

Yeah.

Yeah, that’s it. That totally makes sense.

“Come on,” I sighed, pulling him back down onto the snow. “I’ll teach you.”


	15. An Appointment In Samarra

Sometimes I think about the idea of fate. About the ideas of predestination and free will. Probably more so since I ended up somewhere I know the future. But I think about it, regardless. I only know possibilities, the paths I’ve already taken. Just because this insane delusion – or whatever it is – has followed the plot of the game so far, doesn’t mean it’ll keep doing that. And even if it does, there’s nothing to guarantee anyone will be safe.

One thing’s for sure; this will end as it always does, in blood.

God. That’s so morbid. This is why I shouldn’t get introspective and philosophical, especially in Thedas. It never ends well.

I can’t help it. I’ve been in a weird mood all day. Ever since I saw Alexander take off towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes, with Cassandra, Solas, and a contingent of veteran templars in tow. Maybe because I knew what was coming, and there was actually nothing I could do about it.

Everyone had cheered when the Breach stuttered before slowly blinking out of existence, leaving only a scarred sky and swirling clouds behind. For a moment – just one, single moment, I thought it was fine. I let myself get swept up in the euphoria of it all, allowed everyone else’s happiness convince me that, maybe, it wouldn’t happen. Maybe this time, in this version, we were safe.

In this world, different choices all lead to the same destination.

I knew it was coming.

You knew it was coming.

We all knew it was coming.

Well. All of us except everyone it ended up happening to. Because video game characters never know they’re in a video game. That’s the thing. Unless they’re designed to be hyper aware of their situation, like, say, Deadpool.

Incidentally, no one in Thedas happens to be Deadpool.

And here. We. Go.

I heard the echoing shrieks before anyone else did. Everyone around me was so focused on manning the trebuchet, they didn’t hear it coming until there was a resounding _boom,_ and a plume of fire erupted over the tops of the trees. The ground itself seemed to shudder from the impact of it, throwing pretty much everyone – including me – off their feet. I slammed my blade into the snow, as I’d seen Alex do with his staff a hundred times, leaning heavily on it as I fought to stay upright.

“Look!” someone shouted.

A scream.

“Shit!”

“What _is_ that thing?!”

_“Everyone get down!”_

We all hit the ground as a huge rush of wind reached up and the Not-An-Archdemon swooped dangerously close, but mercifully didn’t open fire. I looked up to see it climb back up higher in the sky, huge wings flapping as it gained altitude.

 “Maker preserve us…” someone beside me murmured, clearly horrified.

There was a pause as no one moved, all of us still reeling from the suddenness of the attack and the fact that we now had to deal with a _fucking dragon_ as the Not-An-Archdemon itself banked left, clearly intending to come in for another attack.

And let me tell you, _nothing_ gets you scrambling to your feet and bolting for the nearest shelter _quite_ like the prospect of an attacking dragon.

“It’s coming back around!”

“The gates! Go! _Go!”_

“Where’s the Herald? He went after the other trebuchet, right?”

“He can take care of himself!” someone else snapped back.

How people here manage to somehow summon the energy to argue while _running_ from a _goddamn dragon_ I’ll never understand.

We all stopped dead in our tracks as someone in a dark robe and a heavy hood stepped out in front of us, blocking our path to the village gates, a twisted grin being all I could see of their face as flames engulfed their hands.

 _The best way to fight a mage is to try to attack from stealth,_ I could remember Alex telling me. _Surprise them. If they know you’re there, you’re probably already dead. They’re just toying with you otherwise._

I could see what he meant now.

I inhaled sharply as my brain scrambled with the concept of mortality in the half a second I knew I had before the mage attacked and-

There was a resounding _crack_ of thunder and a flash of brilliant white light as the Venatori mage who’d been seconds away from charring us suddenly disappeared. I looked around wildly, gripping my sword tightly, only to find a long gouge mark in the snow that had steam rising off it, showing the burned ground beneath. At the end of the trail were the smoking, torn up remains of a corpse.

I blinked several times.

What-?

What just-?

Did _lightning_ just…?

No.

Not a random occurrence of lightning striking a weirdly specific spot. Not divine intervention. Not an accident. Deliberate. _Very deliberate._

“Everyone to the gates!” the Herald of Andraste shouted at us as he barrelled onto the scene, electricity still sparking along his drawn staff, and green light clearly pulsing from his left hand.

_Holy-_

Mages.

Mother.

Fucking.

_Mages._

I have never been so simultaneously pleased and terrified in my life.

But there wasn’t any time to relax. There was barely any time to _breathe._ It’s weird, how battles don’t stop when someone dies. They just keep going. They keep going until pretty much everyone on at least one side is dead. There’s no time to relax. No time to even think.

One mage goes down and there’s still a man with a sword charging. And more men with swords behind him. And more mages to back them up. And it just. Keeps. _Going._

And Alex, he just, he knows. I mean, he’s there, _right there,_ panicked and freaking out like the rest of us, and they’re all coming at him but he _knows._ He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to handle himself. He knows he’s the most powerful one here. He knows he’s the target.

The air exploded with cold as a blade came down and-

And swung uselessly at nothing but air, in the space where Alexander had been half a second ago. Anxious and terrified, my eyes searched the surrounding area for him, finding nothing until I noticed that the attacker wasn’t moving. I blinked several times and looked him up and down, taking far too long to notice the bloodied tip of a blade protruding from the man’s chest. I pulled back, gasping in horror as the now corpse slid forwards, revealing Alexander standing there, completely unharmed and furiously kicking the now-corpse off the blade that had impaled it.

I blinked. “How… _how…”_

His eyes snapped up to mine, before he gestured wildly at the gates. “Go, Emilia!”

I didn’t move.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t.

And I think Alex knew that.

 _“Run!”_ he screamed, giving me a not at all gentle shove as the Not-An-Archdemon screeched overhead. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to convince my legs that they had to _move._

So I bolted for the village.

And it just keeps going.

God.

Oh god.

This is real.

This is really happening.

I am running around in a village that is being attacked by a _dragon._

And I thought the opening minutes of Skyrim were stressful when I first played it. It’s not this. _Nothing_ compares to the sheer terror and violence of this.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m here and I’m so supremely useless and I have _no goddamn idea_ what I’m supposed to be doing. You laugh and joke about how inept people in these games are sometimes, but oh man, facing what they have to, everyone in Thedas is a certified badass just for being willing to _live_ here, to stay and fight for what they have. Against armies. And mages. And _dragons._

And I’m scared.

Oh god I’m _so_ scared.

The ear shattering screech of the Not-An-Archdemon sounded out overhead, and before I knew it, everyone around me was screaming and ducking for cover.

And I, like an _idiot,_ looked up, just in time to see the sky explode.

Oh god.

Oh Jesus.

Oh _fuck._

Buildings caught fire. Debris came raining down. Everyone was running, panicking – who can _blame_ them – yelling, screaming, as the dragon clawed at the roof of the chantry and roared so loudly I thought for a moment the earth might just crack beneath my feet from the sheer sound of it. Smoke billowed into the sky and all of a sudden it was difficult to breathe.

“The chantry,” I could hear Alex screaming desperately to anyone who could hear him, only to cough and gasp as his lungs filled with smoke. “G-get to the chantry!”

I don’t have to know how the game goes to know he’s absolutely going run out there and sacrifice himself to buy everyone enough time to escape. I don’t have to know the game’s plot inside out and back to front to know he’s going to end up being a goddamn hero. But despite that, despite knowing how it was all going to play out, part of me silently begged that he wouldn’t.

Because it’s _real._ This is _real._

And if this is _real,_ then _he’s_ real.

And if _he’s_ real, then he can _die._

God.

God, please, he’s my friend, he’s pretty much the only real friend I have here, he can’t-

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think, don’t think, _don’t think-_

Run.

Just _run._

As fast as you can – up steps, around buildings, over piles of burning debris, dodging arrows and mage fire and everything else these people could possible throw at us. Until suddenly, through the smoke, I saw a familiar figure.

“Nell!” I screamed, trying to move towards her, even though it more like trying to run in a dream, never moving as fast as I should be. “Nell, get to the-”

I cut off with a sharp gasp as pain exploded from everywhere. Any air left in my lungs was punched out of me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t inhale any more. Something wet and warm spilled over my stomach, though I couldn’t tell what.

Dazed and unable to breathe, I looked down, just in time to see the tip of a blade disappear back through my gut with a horrible squelching as blood – so much blood, didn’t even realise I had this much blood – poured out, staining my uniform a deep red.

That-

That’s not…

I fell back, unable to stand anymore.

My eyes rolled back into my skull and I was lost.

There was pain.

And then there was nothing.


	16. All A Dream That Ends In Nothing

Surviving is hard.

Dying’s harder.

“Hey, you listening?”

I blinked several times and staggered, my knees buckling beneath me as my body clearly wasn’t ready to be suddenly standing.

“I- …wha- huh? Where-?”

“Whoa, _easy,”_ Harlan told me in what I think was an attempt at a soothing voice, his hand still firmly gripping my shoulder to steady me.

The instant I had control over my legs again, I pulled away from him, spinning around on the spot in a desperate attempt to work out what the hell just happened. Nothing seemed real – but that’s been my mindset for weeks now so what the hell does _that_ change – and for a moment and struggled to work out where I even was.

What-

What _even-_

Frantically, my hands flew down to my stomach, where I distinctly remembered being stabbed, expecting to find bandages, blood, a gaping hole in my gut, _something._ Beside me, Harlan just watched me in silent confusion as I furiously patted down every inch of me, searching for a gaping stab wound that didn’t seem to be there.

But I _remember,_ I _remember_ that happening, I _remember_ the pain and the blood, so _how-?_

What is going _on?_

I am so confused right now, I have literally never been so confused.

How exactly does one seem to immediately recover from, you know, _getting impaled on a sword?_

I should be dead.

Maybe I _am_ dead?

Am I dead?

Can you die in a dream?

Is this a dream?

Right now, nothing else makes sense to me.

Finally, I whirled around to face Harlan. “Is this magic?”

He just blinked at me, just as confused, albeit for different reasons. “Is _what_ magic?”

“Did a mage heal me?”

 _“Heal you?_ Why would-”

“This was Alex. It was _Alex,_ wasn’t it?”

Harlan was leaning away from me slightly now, like I was totally insane (maybe I was) and if he strayed too close, he might catch my insanity disease.

 _That’s not how mental problems work, Harlan,_ I wanted to tell him. But I didn’t. Because you know, of course I didn’t. Because can you imagine trying to explain the concept of mental illnesses to people in a medieval setting without them screaming _witchcraft_ at you and otherwise completely not getting it? I mean, twenty-first century Earth still manages to struggle with it as a concept, so what hope does Thedas have?

“You- you mean the Herald?”

“How many _other_ Alexanders do we know?” I demanded. “Of course he would do this, he’s _such_ a bleeding heart sometimes, he just doesn’t ever want to admit-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harlan interrupted me, clasping my shoulders and staring right into my eyes. “But the Herald, he… you know he’s dead. You _know_ that.”

I blinked several times and just stared at him in shock, slowly pulling away as my mind reeled from the revelation.

What?

No.

_No…_

I turned away, eyes searching over my surroundings, trying to find something that I think at least part of me knew wasn’t there. We seemed to be settled into a little valley of sorts, largely sheltered by the surrounding mountains from the raging wind. Around us, the remnants of the Inquisition rushed around, desperately trying to set up camp and tents so the countless wounded, at least, would have something to protect them from the elements.

Most of the survivors were soldiers. Because of course they were. But there had been others in Haven. The people who lived there, for one. Families.

I think my heart dropped into my stomach as I noticed just how small this group of people desperately clinging to life was.

Just how many people did we lose in the attack?

With a shaky breath, I closed my eyes and turned away. Now is not the time to think about dead children in a fantasy land that by all accounts shouldn’t and doesn’t actually exist.

This story sure just took a super dark turn.

Even though I should’ve expected it.

And I guess I did.

No one tells you just how abominably shit it feels when you know something terrible is going to happen and you can do anything about it. Then you watch it happen and it’s even worse than even you thought.

This is worse than the Breach.

And _Alex-_

He’s not dead.

Because he _can’t_ be.

That’s not how this goes.

Trying my best to not angrily splutter at Harlan about how Alex _can’t_ be dead because it wouldn’t serve the plot to kill off the central protagonist this early, I lifted my eyes up to his.

“How?” I asked, my voice hoarse even though I knew Alex was still alive and out there, somewhere, in the blizzard that raged around us.

Alone in a blizzard, probably wounded, trying desperately not to freeze to death, with Anchor sparking with more energy than usual and probably being a massive nuisance.

Harlan sighed and looked away. “Emilia, you _know._ You _saw_ what happened.”

“Tell me again.”

Because I have to be sure. I have to know that we’re still going by the canon here, and that we haven’t veered wildly into some random tangent where Thedas loses its hero at Haven and rendered the world powerless to stop either Corypheus or the tears in the Veil.

“Look, he went after the last trebuchet, something about buying everyone enough time to get out. Then the mountain collapsed.”

I breathed a sigh a relief. Still sticking to the plot. Which means Alex is alive. He’s fine. Or, he’s _going_ to be fine.

“He could’ve survived,” I said, hoping to start sowing the seeds of doubt in people’s minds, so they’d head out and look for him.

Harlan groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saw the avalanche. It _buried_ Haven. No one’s walking away from that. And even if someone _had,_ alone in this blizzard? He’d have frozen to death by now.”

But he-

_Don’t think about it._

“Listen, I know it’s hard. I _know_ that. But you can’t stay in denial forever.”

My lip curled. “I’ll stay in denial until you bring me his frozen corpse, Harlan.”

He groaned. “Nell said you weren’t taking it well.”

 _Nell_ did?

Last time I saw her was in the middle of a battle seconds before I got stabbed and _probably should’ve died,_ how does Nell even _know?_

I’m not even going to pretend I understand any of this. This is too complicated. Too weird. Too freaking much to deal with right now.

“Why would you think you needed healing, anyway?” Harlan asked, his voice slicing right through the brief silence that had ensued and causing me to snap back into reality. Or whatever this is anymore.

I blinked several times. “I… I was wounded?”

His eyes narrowed. “Uh, no. You weren’t.”

“No, no, you don’t get it, I was _stabbed,”_ I told him, gesturing at my stomach. “Right in the gut. I was run right through – I saw the tip of the blade.”

Oh my god that’s bloody horrifying. I didn’t realise how horrifying that was until I said it just now.

Harlan’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “You’d be dead. And you’re not nursing a stab wound, regardless.”

“I thought I _was_ dead!” I shout-whispered at him. “But then I was here, and… and I don’t know. I thought it was magic?”

“Look, I don’t pretend to be an expert, but even _I_ know that what you’re saying can’t just be casually reversed by magic. It _has_ limitations. You’d be _dead.”_

That… makes no sense. That makes no sense at all.

I’m fine?

How am I fine?

 _How_ could I _possibly_ be _fine?_

“Hey,” he called gently, clasping my shoulder. “I know you’re upset. I know he was your friend. But you’re acting _kind of_ crazy.”

“But I-”

“Look, we’re _all_ scared and panicked and grieving,” he told me softly, careful to make direct eye contact as he spoke. “I don’t know what you think happened, or if this is just how you process the death of someone you care about, but you’re _fine._ We have _real_ wounded that need attention.”

I opened my mouth to reply, onto be interrupted when a familiar voice called out.

“Harlan!” Nell shouted, running over to us.

Harlan had never seemed so relieved to see her. “Yeah?”

Nell doubled over, panting and struggling with words in between taking frantic breaths. “You… your father… he was a physician… right? Think you can… help? With the wounded? They’re desperate.”

Harlan looked a little taken aback. “I- I wouldn’t know enough to help,” he stammered uselessly.

Nell waved his attempt at an argument off like it was nothing. “You know how to bind a wound properly?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“That’ll help. _Please,_ Harlan. They need everyone they can get.”

Finally, Harlan nodded. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

With one last careful glance at me – one last attempt to either discern whether I’d completely lost it – and a small nod at Nell, Harlan moved off, running as fast as he could through the snow back to the centre of camp. Nell let out a sharp exhale and pinched the bridge of her nose.

 _“Finally,”_ she breathed.

My eyes narrowed. “You lied.”

She shook her head. “It’s not a lie if it’s true – they _do_ need people to help out. Getting him away from your grieving ass so he doesn’t exhaust himself trying to make you accept reality is a side benefit.”

I screwed up my face at that, which she completely ignored.

“You don’t _honestly_ think Alex is dead?” I asked with a distinct edge in my voice.

She folded her arms. “I think what he did was very heroic, and we all owe him our lives. But it’s not _about_ him. It’s about _you.”_

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It _means,_ you can either sit here and grieve forever or you can try to _honour_ him by helping the people he died to save. Make a decision.”

I gritted my teeth.

He’s not dead.

_He’s not dead._

You hear me, Dragon Age Universe? _The Herald of Andraste isn’t dead._ He doesn’t die here. Or at least, he isn’t _supposed_ to die here. Odds are he dies two years from now, chasing down an army of Qunari and his lying egghead traitor not-an-elven-god of a friend, respectively, killed by a wildly out of control Anchor.

And I was doing _so_ well at not thinking about Trespasser…

“I should be getting back, help out,” Nell said quietly, looking back at the camp and letting out a huge sigh as her frustration seemed to melt away. “Are you going to be okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Nell nodded and moved away, glancing back at me one final time before disappearing back in the direction of the camp. I gazed back out at the field of snow, eyes trailing over the horizon, searching for even the faintest hint of green light.

He’s out there.

Somewhere.

Probably wounded and slowly freezing to death.

I glanced back at the camp, where everyone seemed focused on keeping themselves safe, and tended to the hundreds of wounded. No one’s going out to look for him. Both Harlan and Nell seem relatively convinced he’s dead, so who’s to say anyone will even try? Not to mention, they're already too preoccupied with the countless wounded. 

I squared my shoulders and returned my gaze to the huge fields of snow and ice that extended beyond. I can’t wait for the plot to catch up with itself. I can’t convince anyone he’s alive without sounding crazy, or at least crazy with grief. But _I_ know. I know he’s still alive. Because of course he is. He has to be. That's how this goes. Without him, without the Anchor, there isn't a chance for anyone. As callous as it may seem, his life is more important. Or at least, it  _should_ be. Just from a purely tactical standpoint, he's the one you want to keep alive. Above everyone else.

Maybe they'll send out people to look for survivors eventually. But who's to say he wouldn't have frozen to death by then?

Only one thing for it.

I cast one last glance back at camp, before heading out into the blizzard myself.


	17. Blank White Spaces

I’m an idiot.

I’m a goddamn stupid useless _idiot._

I’m an idiot and I’m reckless and I’m impulsive and I hate myself.

Run into a blizzard, Emily, it’ll be fine, Emily, you won’t get lost, Emily, who needs supplies, Emily, you can totally track one person down in a snowstorm, Emily, everything will inevitably work out, Emily…

What? I’m dressed for snow. Obviously. You live in a village up in the mountains for weeks, you learn to dress according to the weather. It’s not my fault I failed to remember literally everything else when I struck out on my own out of a sheer determination and a fanatical devotion to a man I’ve befriended who, you know, _isn’t even real._ Medical supplies, food, water, a way to even find him in the first place, how was any of that supposed to occur to me in my moment of weakness?

I’m an idiot.

But it’s fine. It’s fine, right? I mean, if I freeze to death out here, I’ll just respawn, right? Like I did less than an hour ago? I am playing a video game, and that makes me technically immortal. Never mind that it makes no goddamn sense. Never mind that I’ve been here for weeks and still can’t quite wrap my head around whether any of this is in any way real. I’ll be fine. And everything will work out. And if it doesn’t? Well, can’t be any worse than getting stabbed through the gut, and I managed to survive that.

Not even going to pretend to understand what the hell is going on.

No one ever tells you just how much dying and then not dying because apparently you never died at all despite the fact that you _remember_ it screws with your brain. Then, whoops, you’re trudging through the snow alone and in the middle of a blizzard (well, the tail-end of blizzard, the weather seems distinctly calmer than before) because oh wow, turns out you’re just a suicidally loyal friend.

Here I used to think I had a self-preservation instinct. But I guess that’s one of the first things you lose upon dying only to wake up and find you never died at all.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I have to find Alex, whatever the cost. His life is the only thing that means anything anymore. Maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe the god of this universe saw what happened in Haven and was all like _oh hell no, you don’t get to die that easy, you’ve still got shit to do._

Guess I should take pride in being important enough to bring back.

That, or this really is an elaborate fever dream the god of this universe is in fact, me. If I can ever get the lucid dreaming thing to work.

Christ, it’s cold. Turns out snow is cold. In other news, water is wet, Thedas is a cesspit of a fantasy world, Corypheus is Douche Overlord Supreme, Alexander Trevelyan is a mage, and Emily Grace Taylor-Moore has completely lost her fucking mind.

Oh, who am I kidding, we all _know_ Anders is Douche Overlord Supreme. Corypheus is more like Douche Overlord Aspiring.

Not. Helping. _Emily._

Can’t help it. I’m stressed, I’m in Thedas. And you know what they say; when stressed and in Thedas, blame the mage rebellion.

Why did I come out here alone? Who thought that was a good idea? Someone should be fired.

God. I don’t even know where he is. I have no idea where he could possibly be. All I’m doing is heading in the vague direction of Haven – somehow I knew what that direction it was, I think because part of me could vaguely remember trekking out here with everyone else back when we were all fleeing for our lives from the attacking army, even though I _shouldn’t be able to_ because you know, _the got-stabbed-and-died thing._

As if I even needed another reason to doubt my reality right now.

I have no freaking idea where I am, or where I’m going. I’m wandering pointlessly around the wilderness, looking for one probably wounded man in the aftermath of both a dragon attack and a siege. The only advantage I have here is that I know what to look for. Here’s hoping I find it before I freeze to death. Or Alex does.

Oh _Jesus_ it’s cold.

Moving! Keep moving. Strenuous physical exercise – the ultimate cure to hypothermia.

(It’s not)

(It’s really not)

(Seriously, don’t quote me on that)

(I have no idea what to do with hypothermia)

(Probably a major oversight on my part, that)

(I assume getting them near a heat source ASAP is part of it?)

(Research is important, children)

Then, suddenly, there was a sudden burst of harsh green light, reflecting off the snow. I let out a startled gasp and resumed fighting through the snow, trying to get closer.

Oh thank God.

Thank you, _thank you,_ God.

 _“Alex,”_ I breathed, rushing over to him as fast as I could, even though knee-deep snow is an absolute bastard to try to plough through at all quickly. “Alex!”

There was no response.

As I got closer, I realised why.

He’d collapsed face first on the ground, half covered by snow that had been swept over him by the unrelenting winds. His clothes were torn and bloodied, the snow around him stained an alarming red. His hair was singed and I could see the edges of a serious looking burn creeping over his shoulder, up his neck, along his jawline and onto his cheek; where the skin had turn red and raw, peeling away, flecks of black and white and blood riddled throughout. Blood seemed to come from everywhere, and had gotten in everything. The hair on his head that hadn’t been completely singed off was plastered to his face with a mixture of sweat and blood.

All in all, he was a complete wreck.

As I suppose you would be, after facing down a dragon.

Christ, the leather has pretty much _melted against his skin…_

I’d never seen anyone this badly wounded before.

“Shit… _oh shit…”_ I murmured, falling onto my knees next to him. “Oh Jesus… shit… _Alex?”_

Carefully, I reached out, my numb fingers brushing against the frozen leather of his wrecked coat. And just for one wild, horrifying moment, I couldn’t help but think I got here too late.

Then I felt a tremor against my hand, and I immediately cast my eyes down, only to realise he was shivering. Completely out cold, but that didn’t stop his body from doing what it could to warm itself up. Frantically, I reached up to his neck, careful to avoid the burned skin as much as I could, and checked his pulse, desperate to find some other sign of life, that the shivering wasn’t just some weird post-death nervous tick.

Those few seconds were possibly the longest of my life.

It was weak – so much so I could barely feel it, but his pulse was there.

It’s there.

Which means he’s alive.

Oh thank you God, he’s still _alive._

I looked down at him again – at the absolute complete fucking wreck that he was.

Yeah, he’s alive, but for how much longer?

“Shit,” I swore again. “Fucking _Christ.”_

It’s not supposed to be like this.

It’s not supposed to be this bad.

He’s not supposed to be this badly hurt.

“You’re going to have one hell of a burn scar, my lord Herald,” I told him as cheerfully as I could, despite knowing that he couldn’t possibly hear me. “I suppose taking dragon fire to the face will do that.”

Slowly, carefully, I gripped his shoulder and pushed, rolling him over onto his back. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know how to fix this. I have to get him back, I have to do _something,_ but what? What _can_ I do? I can hardly pick him up and carry him back, and it’s not like forcibly dragging him through the snow all the way back to camp is even an option. I have nothing on me, nothing I can use to bind his wounds, or anything. I can’t even help alleviate the signs of hyperthermia.

I found him, he’s alive, if barely, but what good is that when I can’t keep him that way?

He’s going to die.

Shit, shit, _shit,_ motherfucking _shit,_ he’s going to _die._

“Don’t you do this,” I hissed, growing increasingly desperate as he failed to respond. “Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan, don’t you _dare_ do this.”

Only one thing for it.

I have to get him back to camp.

We’re not that far, I have to try.

Slowly, carefully, anxious not to touch his wrecked skin or the melted leather, I wrapped my arms around his torso and heaved, stumbling backwards in an effort to physically drag him out of there and back to safety.

And managed to move him maybe all of half an inch, because the guy is over six feet tall and heavier than he looks.

My grip on him slacked and I fell on my ass back onto the snow, letting out a surprised gasp as I did, probably because I suddenly also had Alex’s dead weight fall onto my lap.

Perfect.

No, really, this is _just perfect._

“You gonna help me out, Maker?!” I screamed furiously up at the sky, before returning my attention to the unconscious man before me. “Oh shit, don’t do this, don’t do this Alex, _please don’t do this to me._ Don’t you dare have the gall to die on me now. Not after everything that’s happened. You’re not allowed. You hear me? _Not allowed.”_

He was unconscious and I may as well have been talking to myself, but what else could I do? I’m not strong enough to physically drag him back. It’s all I can do to try rouse him.

“Alex,” I called his name, gripping his largely unburned shoulder (because the other one was a _mess_ and the leather has _melted_ against his _skin,_ Jesus fucking _Christ)_ and shaking him as violently as I could without, you know, making his wounds even worse. “Alex. _Alex._ C’mon, please… _please_ don’t do this. Come on. _Come on.”_

It went on like that for what felt like an eternity.

I didn’t know what else to do.

There was nothing else I _could_ do.

“Alex!” I just about screamed in his face when his eyes fluttered open. _“Alex!_ Oh god. _Oh god._ You’re okay. Thank you, _thank you,_ Jesus.”

He mumbled something vague and incoherent in response, only to cut off as his face screwed up with pain and veins of bright, harsh green light arced up his left arm. I winced, but there was no time to do anything about it. There was nothing I could do about the Anchor, that was something I was painfully aware of. There was nothing I could do about any of it. So quickly but as carefully as I could manage, I wrapped my arms around him and heaved him up, out of the snow. Ice clung to him in patches, stuck to his skin and got caught up in his hair, and he shivered violently, trying to weakly stagger to his feet. I pulled his arm across my shoulders in some effort to support him.

He gasped in pain and I could see his eyes begin to well up with tears from the sheer effort of it.

Oh Jesus.

Oh Jesus _Christ._

“I know it hurts,” I told him, trying to be gentle but encouraging, not that it did much.

He just gave me a sharp grunt in return, too preoccupied and in pain to do anything else.

He’s hurting. Holy shit, he’s hurting _so badly,_ I can’t even imagine, and I’m making him drag himself through snow and up a mountain. He’s hurting so much and there’s blood everywhere and I can feel heat radiating off his skin where it’s been burnt to a crisp and his left hand is spasming uncontrollably and he’s shivering so violently all the time and he can barely walk but he’s _alive_ and that’s all that matters now. He’s alive, and I have to keep him that way. No matter how painful it is, no matter how much it hurts him, no matter how guilty I feel for putting him through this agony. He made it this far on his own. That’s an achievement, just in and of itself. But it won’t count for much if he dies here.

“I know,” I whispered frantically, not sure what else to say, knowing that nothing I said would help. “I know, I know, I know.”

His breathing was heavy and ragged, he wheezed and gasped and coughed violently with every faltering step. He lurched uncontrollably, barely able to remain standing, saved from falling only by the frozen, vice-like grip I kept on him.

Because he can’t do this. Not here. Not now. Not when we’re so close.

“Come on,” I hissed, at both myself and him. “Come on, you can do this. I know it hurts. Come on. You can’t give up, not now. Come on.”

He sagged, slipping from my grip and sinking to his knees. I gritted my teeth and fought back the almost overwhelming urge to bite a string of violent curses at him, at myself, at Corypheus, at the Inquisition, at the Maker, at God, at anyone who would listen.

“Oh no. No, no, no. Get up. Alex? _Get up,”_ I hissed, grabbing fistfuls of his – torn and fraying and bloodied and burned and _partially melted, oh my god_ – coat. “We’re so close, Alex, you’re _so fucking close,_ it’s just over that rise, see? You _have to keep going.”_

I yanked him as I said this, maybe with a little too much force because he immediately let out a cry of pain and tears streaked down his face, unbidden. I looked back in the direction of the camp – so close now, we’re _so goddamn close_ – and tried to put his pain out of my mind.

“I know, I know,” I murmured, again, still pulling him up to his feet. “I know, I know, I know.”

It’s a lie.

I don’t know.

I have no freaking idea.

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how much this is hurting him. I don’t know the sheer agony he’s going through. I don’t know how close or far we are from salvation. I don’t know how badly he’s been hurt. I don’t know if he’s going to survive. I don’t know. I don’t know _anything._

The Anchor hissed and flared wildly as his hand spasmed uncontrollably again, and he screamed.

Actually screamed.

Screamed like he did that day back in Haven, in the middle of the frozen lake as a lightning storm of his own making swirled around him. Screamed like characters in movies do when they’re faced with an insurmountable amount of pain and grief. Screamed like someone being tortured. Screamed like I’d heard him do before, back in the real world, while staring at a screen with my heart thumping uncontrollably in my chest as I tried to plough through that (probably final) sequence of Trespasser.

I tried to breathe.

Two years.

He’s still got two years.

He slipped out of my grasp, collapsing onto the snow, and this time not responding at all when I tried to pull him back up, the Anchor still lashing out.

_Two years._

Two goddamn years.

It’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

Because no one deserves to die like that. No one deserves to be that young and die that painfully.

“Alex,” I called his name frantically, dropping to my knees beside him, desperately trying to do whatever I could to rouse him. “Don’t do this. Please, _please_ don’t do this. Alex? Alex come on. Come on. _Please.”_

He didn’t respond.

Something told me he wouldn’t, no matter what I did now.

“Oh _Christ…”_ I hissed, before straightening up and looking off in the direction of the Inquisition’s camp. _“Help!_ Someone-”

I was cut off by a shout.

“There! It’s _him!”_

Cullen.

That’s Cullen’s voice.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. They’re here. They found us. Oh my god. We’re saved. He’s saved. They’ll get him out, they’ll take him back to camp, they’ll get healers, _he’s going to make it._

I have never been so glad to hear someone’s voice.

“Thank the Maker!”

Cassandra.

Oh Jesus. This is real. This is really happening. They’re really here. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay. Everyone is going to be okay.

Oh my god.

The sound of snow being kicked out of the way as someone sprinted towards us. _“Emilia!”_

_Oh my god._

I didn’t move as Nell quickly wrapped her arms around me, using her momentum to practically pull me off Alex. For a moment, I began to fight her, desperate to go back, to make sure he was okay, to do _something,_ but Nell kept me in an iron grip, refusing to release me as Cullen quickly swooped down and with some effort on his part, hoisted the completely unconscious Alex up, out of the snow, bridal style.

Good grief that man is strong.

“Oh my god,” I murmured uselessly. _“Oh my god…”_

“Maker, he’s freezing,” Cullen hissed from somewhere above, before turning around and barking in our direction, “head back to the camp, tell them what’s happened, get as many healers as they can spare. Move, _now!”_

Nell nodded curtly and released me, although she kept a tight grip on my wrist and used it to wrench me to my feet. I didn’t resist her. I was too shocked to really do anything, so I just let her pull me along, back to the camp, as quickly as possible, with Cullen and Cassandra close behind.

I have no idea what’s happening. I have no idea what I just did. I don’t know if this is even real.

Camp was exactly the mess you’d think it would be when the Commander randomly bursts onto the scene with the Herald of Andraste in his arms and immediately starts screaming at everyone around him in a panic. People crowded around, surprised shouts sounding out as they realised what just happened.

“Is that-?”

“The Herald! He lives!”

 _“Move!”_ Commander Rutherford practically screamed overtop the chatter that had erupted throughout. “Where are the healers? He needs urgent attention! And someone _get Solas!”_

Nell pulled me to the side as there was a flurry of activity, trying to keep well out of the ensuing chaos, and for the first time since we were found, she let go of me. I didn’t move and she turned away, trying to breathe, and basically focus herself.

“I can’t…” she gasped, doubling over and trying to focus on breathing, “I can’t _believe_ you did that.”

I didn’t reply. I was shaking. Couldn’t say words. Couldn’t think.

Oh my god.

Oh, my _god._

“Nell!” Harlan yelled, rushing over. “Nell, what just-” he cut off as he saw me, before quickly recomposing himself, “…Emilia, _what happened?_ What did you _do?”_

I shook my head and didn’t answer. Nell groaned and ran a hand through her hair, stressed and exhausted and completely at a loss.

“I’m glad he’s alive,” she began, turning to me, “but it doesn’t make what you did smart.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure I even knew what words were anymore.

Meanewhile, the crowd had mostly cleared out – largely thanks to Cullen screaming at them to give the healers the space they needed – leaving the Commander time to notice the three us standing on the sidelines.

“You,” he snarled, rounding on me. “What were you _thinking,_ going out there on your own?!”

Automatically, I shrank back, the blood draining from my face as I scrambled to find words, find some way to defend myself without incriminating myself.

“I- I…”

“With all due respect Commander, she saved the Herald’s life,” Harlan argued, quickly stepping between me and Cullen. “He wouldn’t have survived if she hadn’t-”

 _“If_ he survives,” Cullen snarled back, cutting across him. “We have no idea what’s out there, and you walked right into it! You could’ve led them straight to us!”

 _“Commander,”_ Cassandra called sharply, with all the terrifying authority she could possibly summon – which was a _lot._ “We don’t have time for this.”

Cullen’s lip curled, but he seemed to deflate a little. He gave me one final glare before turning away, throwing his hands up into the air, clearly unable to deal with anything right now. Cassandra let out a long, thoroughly exhausted sigh and went after him, leaving the three of us – Harlan, Nell, and me – standing there, utterly motionless and silent.

And then my knees buckled beneath me and I practically collapsed into the snow.

“Oh my god…” I mumbled hoarsely, my mouth barely capable of making words. “Oh, my _god…”_

Almost instantly, both Nell and Harlan turned around, Nell quickly sitting down next to me, placing a reassuring hand on my back.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper.

I nodded mutely, not sure what to say. Slowly, I looked up at Harlan, forcing a small smile. “I- …thanks, Harlan.”

He folded his arms. “He shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

Nell grimaced slightly. “The Commander’s stressed. Everyone is.”

I exhaled shakily. “He wasn’t wrong, either. I was stupid.”

Harlan sighed and looked away. “Okay, yeah, maybe you were. But it was a stupid decision that _saved the Herald’s life._ That’s got to count for something.”

Nell bit her lip. “It hasn’t saved him yet. You _saw_ the state he was in, Harlan.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at either of us.

“He’ll pull through,” he said, though I couldn’t tell who he was trying to convince; us, or himself. “He’s survived this long, and he’s the Maker’s chosen. He _has_ to pull through.”

Slowly, I nodded. “I- yeah. You’re right.”

Alex will pull through.

He has to.


	18. Cast A Shadow Wherever We Stand

You know what no one needs to know about, ever? That time I fidgeted anxiously behind a crowd of healers, stretching up onto my tippy-toes trying to see what they were doing to Alex. Because no one wants to hear about me and my reaction to glimpsing the slow and agonising work that comes with _peeling melted leather off someone’s skin,_ and all the horrible grossness that goes with such a task.

And _no!_ I’m _never_ going to get over that!

They were ripping off his _skin!_ Because you know what melted leather doesn’t do? Come off easily and without a fight. I mean sure, maybe this is something they have to do, maybe the few mage healers in the Inquisition did everything they could to make it as not awful and traumatising as it could be, but _what the actual fuck, Thedas._

I didn’t want to see that! But I needed to know he’s okay! But he was very obviously _not at all okay,_ so _why_ did I insist on doing that to myself? More importantly, why couldn’t I _stop_ myself?

Oh my god it’s so bad, this is _so bad,_ everything about this is so completely and utterly bad and I’m terrified of everything forever Jesus fucking Christ let’s just add dragons to the list of things I’m supremely grateful I don’t have to deal with in real life, because oh my god.

Considering just how often you end up facing down dragons in Inquisition, I’m shocked none of the scars available in the character creator were burn scars. Because Jesus goddamn _Christ_ he’s interacted with exactly _one_ dragon so far and oh look, he came out of it with some actual, serious, life threatening burns, to the point of disfigurement. Because it’s huge and it goes right over his shoulder and onto his chest and back and also up his neck, and oh my god, what the fuck, game.

Am I ever going to be able to play this again, when I finally manage to claw my way out of this insanity?

The worst part of all of this? He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness this whole time. I know because occasionally he’d grunt and gasp and squirm in pain. Once he even managed a shout. Then, almost immediately, it was back to unconsciousness, before anyone could respond.

And, _Christ._

Maybe I should’ve tried to help. I had tried, at first, only to be very quickly reminded that I have nothing useful to put forward, as my survival skills in Thedas are sub-par, if they exist at all. Rather than get in everyone’s way trying to be helpful but ultimately only ever being that super irritating person who knows nothing and does everything wrong, I’d offered to watch Alex, in case he ever bothers to regain consciousness for more than maybe a minute, tops.

And here we are. Watching. Because no one wants to know about the melted leather and skin peeling and all the generally bloody and painful horribleness that took place maybe an hour or so ago.

People were still reeling from the attack, struggling to keep up with the general insanity of it all, as well as the crushing reality that Haven really was gone, along with hundreds of innocent lives. I remained exactly where I was, pretty much frozen in place, trying to think something, _anything,_ else. Something like the fact that I need to find a way out of here. The attack on Haven has told me that much, at least. I need to get out, to find a way to go back. Because I sure as well can’t stay here forever. I’ve already died once. Sure, I came back – even though what kind of sense does _that_ make – but if I can’t even return to reality by dying, then the what the _hell_ are my options here?

How long has it been now? Weeks? Months? I haven’t been keeping count.

Is life still going on without me? Am I in a coma? Am I even there at all, or have I mysteriously disappeared and presumed dead? How am I supposed to know? I can’t go back and _check._

I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a plan here. I have no plans. No plans, no ideas, nothing that would be in any way useful. What I _need_ is a second opinion. What I need is to explain my situation to someone who isn’t going to brand me as crazy and a foreign spy the second the words are out of my mouth. I need to hear what someone more versed in magical bullshit would have to say. Maybe they’ll think of something that hasn’t occurred to me.

Best candidate for that would of course be Solas.

But no.

Because _no._

Because bad idea is a bad idea.

Because I don’t have to have played the end of Trespasser to know that trusting him would be a spectacularly bad plan. And if I try to talk to him I’ll inevitably lose my composure and I don’t even want to think about that. Or associate myself with him in case that causes people to make connections to me upon his inevitable betrayal. Or something. Who even knows anymore? I don’t. I don’t know anything. Don’t look at me. I’m throwing ideas around even though I know they’re all terrible and there’s a _reason_ I kept the circumstances of my presence here hidden in the first place.

Anxiously I glanced back down at Alex, before letting out a huge, exhausted sigh.

I just want out.

At this point, that’s all I want.

I want to go back where it’s safe and calm and I don’t have to worry about getting killed on a daily basis, whether it’s by an army, mages, demons… a goddamn _dragon…_ back to the place where possibly the closest friend I’ve ever had is nothing more than a video game protagonist, a customisable blank slate of a fictional character who will only ever exist to me, in my mind, and my playthrough.

Once again, I anxiously glanced at Alex, only to quickly turn away because it was too painful a thing to consider. Am I prepared to go back to that? To lose the friendship I’ve built here?

Ugh, I don’t know. This is just shit and I’d like to go home now, please. Or at least die and stay dead. Or just, you know, answers in general might be nice. Some understanding of the situation would be so amazingly helpful right now.

“…where…?” a small, quiet, hoarse voice rasped suddenly.

I jerked back in surprise and almost fell off the crate I’d been sitting on.

 _“Alex!”_ I just about screamed in his face the second I looked back at him to find him blinking repeatedly, still trying to claw his way into actual, proper, lucid consciousness. “I- …you… you’re awake!”

He didn’t answer me then, just tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He inhaled sharply and tried (and failed) to bite back a hiss of pain.

“Stop,” I urged him, gently pushing him back down. “Don’t move.”

“Where…?” he tried again, looking around as best he could without moving too much, as it seemed to cause him too much pain.

“Safe,” I told him. “You’re safe.”

“No, you don’t- …there’s something… I have to warn… tell them…”

“They know.”

“W-what?”

“Cullen already interrogated Dorian,” I told him gently. “They know about Corypheus.”

“Dorian?” he repeated blankly.

I winced. “He’s- uh, he’s a mage. From Tevinter. He arrived in Haven just before the attack. Remember?”

Alex opened his mouth to reply, but almost immediately he snapped it shut, gritting his teeth and gripping his left wrist tightly.

“The Anchor still hurts?” I asked, a little horrified. “It should’ve stabilised by now, I can go get the healers-”

“No,” he ground out. “Forget it. Nothing they can do.”

_“Alex-”_

I cut off when I felt his hand grip my arm, keeping me there.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told me firmly, although something in his eyes looked more akin to pleading than anything that could be described as authoritative.

There was a moment where I said nothing, just watched him carefully as his grip on my arm slowly loosened, allowing me to pull back.

“I should get the healers anyway,” I mumbled, mostly to myself. “They’ll want to check over you now that you’re awake.”

With that, I swiftly turned, in a strange rush to get away from there, from the whole situation. And then;

“Emilia.”

At the call of my name – not my real one, but I was so used to being called that at this point that it may as well have been – I turned on my heels to face him, propped up on his elbows, looking rather pained but desperate to ignore it, or at least not acknowledge it.

“I never told you,” he rasped at me.

My eyes narrowed. “Tell me what?”

He grimaced one more time and pushed himself even further upright, allowing himself to briefly display his left palm to me, and the bright, sickly green light slashed across it – still flaring slightly, veins of light snaking their way over his hand.

“You called it the Anchor,” he pointed out. “I didn’t- …I never said…”

I froze dead in my tracks.

What?

No.

Haha. _No._

No freaking goddamn way. I didn’t say that. I never called it that. I wouldn’t be that stupid. Impulsive, yes. A little unthinking, maybe. But not that stupid. Not so stupid and unaware of the situation to slip up like that. I wouldn’t.

Did I?

Oh my god. I did. I totally did. I said Anchor. He’s been unconscious this whole time, he hasn’t been able to tell anyone what Corypheus said to him. There’s no way anyone would know the term.

And I said Anchor.

I. Said. _Anchor._

And now he knows.

Does he _know,_ or does he just _think_ he knows? Does he simply want me to _think_ that he knows? Does he know that I know that he at least thinks he knows? He must. But he _can’t._ He _can’t_ know.

“You’re wounded, my lord,” I told him quickly, while silently reprimanding myself and praying to all the gods I knew of, fictional and otherwise, that he was too delirious to remember this discussion by the time he recovered properly. “Get some rest. You need it.”

He let out a breathless chuckle and pretty much collapsed back onto the cot he was on.

“Ha. Got you,” he breathed, before he completely slacked, unconscious once again.

For what seemed like an eternity, I just stood there, at a loss.

_…shit._


	19. Wait For The Common Sense Of Morning

Alexander made no indication that he even remembered that conversation for almost the entire week that followed. And me, being the eternally anxious and paranoid person that I am, never relaxed in that whole time. All that time wandering in the vague direction of north in the Frostbacks, quietly freaking the hell out and desperate not to make it too obvious, and he didn’t acknowledge my existence. Not even once.

Maybe he really had been too delirious at the time to remember.

Or maybe he was waiting for the opportune moment to corner and interrogate me somewhere the conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

I don’t know. I have no idea. How am I supposed to know?

_Got you._

Never has such a relatively innocuous phrase been so damn intimidating. Because that implies that he’s _always_ suspected. That implies that even if he doesn’t remember my royal fuck up, he still knows _something_ is going on with me. Something he appears determined to get to the bottom of.

There is just no version in which I come away clean, is there?

Why. Why, oh _why_ did my Inquisitor have to turn out to be hiding some real, actual intelligence and general observational skills behind all that insane power and magic? Oh, it’s not enough that he can turn me into a smouldering pile of ash any time he wants. No. He has to be the kind of person who could probably crush me at chess, too. He has to be the kind of person I can now all too easily imagine effortlessly outmanoeuvring every major noble in Orlais over the course of a single night.

Was it so much to ask for him to be an idiot?

Just my luck for playing as a highborn mage. _Of course_ he’s smart. _Of course_ he has the intelligence to back himself up. _Of course_ he’s the kind of person who puts his vastly superior education to use in a medieval fantasy land. I mean, what _else_ did I expect? Alexander is a lot of things – a mage, a lord, a Trevelyan, an overly angsty piece of shit, the Herald of Andraste; but one thing he _isn’t,_ one thing he will _never be,_ is an idiot. At least, not in the low-intelligence sense of the word. That much, I’m sure of.

Meanwhile, Skyhold was a mess when the Inquisition managed to stumble upon it.

It was a crumbling, half-destroyed disaster, left abandoned on a lonely mountain top, looking far less impressive than it did in that first initial reveal cutscene in the game. For one thing, it has a hole in the roof in the game. Here, it barely even _has_ a roof to begin with. Almost the entire left wing of the castle complex was little more than rubble, one of the watchtowers had collapsed, with rubble and debris strewn aimlessly across the courtyards. Sure, it was impressive and imposing, in its own way, but it really was just a _ruin._

So of course, what with it being little better than a pile of stone on a mountain top, offering little to nothing in the way of actual shelter, at this point barely worth the sheer amount of manpower that would have to go into getting it up and running as a functional base, our dear Herald of Andraste took one look at it, at how impossibly impractical it was, and immediately fell in love with it.

I’d say it was kind of cute, the way he stubbornly ignored anyone and everyone who tried to tell him that it wouldn’t work in the long run – there were no roads, making trade difficult if not outright impossible, that the location was impractical, that they should leave the mountains, head into Jader and send word explaining what the hell happened in Haven to both Orlais and Ferelden’s monarchs. I’d say his impassioned speeches about _making it work_ because _this place deserves people willing to put in the time and effort_ were inspiring, if they didn’t get really old, really fast. On top of the fact that I was doing my damndest to disappear into the crowd and never be seen or heard of again.

As it happens, fate wouldn’t let me do either. All I could do was wait and pray the conversation I wished desperately to avoid would simply never come. That something insane and ridiculous would utterly consume Alexander’s attention so he would be too distracted to corner me.

_Got you._

A shiver went up my spine at the memory, at the thought of trying to explain myself to him. I mean, how do I even _start_ that conversation? I sure as hell don’t know.

Well, you see, your life, your world, your existence, everything you’ve ever known… it’s all the intellectual property of this company called BioWare who’ve created Thedas so people like me can live vicariously through people like you. You know, just for fun. Because hey, apparently there are a lot of people out there who’d rather fight Blights and accidentally start a widespread mage rebellion and deal with a magical demon spewing sky-hole than live their actual normal lives. And I’m one of them. By the way, I kind of know the basic narrative of your immediate future. Also, while I have you – _why do I keep seeing mounted krogan heads around in the games?_ Are you aware they’re an alien species of angry battle lizards? _Are you aware it implies that you’re in the Mass Effect universe?_ Also, I saw an ogre in a Mass Effect game once, _are you aware how much that implies you’re in the Mass Effect universe?_

Getting so off track there, but you get the point. Actually cannot do that conversation right now. Or ever.

I am _this close_ to just quitting this whole thing, getting out of the Frostbacks, and making a quiet life for myself in some inconsequential town in, oh I don’t know, rural Ferelden, probably.

Except I can’t do that. Because I don’t know anything about living a normal life by Thedosian standards.

But maybe the god of this universe, whoever they might be, was on my side after all.

Because the Inquisition had been hiding out in the ruined form of an ancient mountain castle nursing its wounds for maybe five days when something amazing happened – the main body of the Templar Order finally managed to catch up.

And there are no words for the scene that followed.

I had never seen Alex run so fast. It didn’t matter that he was still wounded, that any real physical exertion left him gasping and breathless. It didn’t matter that he was a mage running at full pelt to a group of armed and uneasy templars – a group of which immediately began to reach for their blades the second they saw him charging at them, looking wild.

 _“Alex!”_ a voice shouted as a templar – a tall man with a mess of dark brown hair – pushed his way to the front of the crowd and opened his arms wide, looking as though he was going to burst into tears of pure, unadulterated joy.

Alex all but ploughed straight into him, almost with enough momentum to send them both to the ground. Almost. The templar staggered, but managed to keep himself standing as he drew Alex into a tight embrace, holding him close, like he was scared of ever letting go.

They stayed like that for an absurdly long time, not even paying attention to the fact that so many people were staring in shock at the Herald of Andraste’s behaviour. As it dragged on, though, people slowly began moving around them, as it finally seemed to dawn on everyone that whatever was happening seemed to be personal.

“You’re alive,” Alex noted hoarsely as he pulled himself away, his eyes glancing up and down the templar’s frame as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “I thought- … _Andraste,_ Nathan, I thought…”

The man I could only assume was Nathan Trevelyan gave a small, somewhat pained smile and placed a reassuring hand on Alex’s shoulder, murmuring something I couldn’t catch.

And I watched it all happen from across the courtyard, taken aback by the suddenness of it all. I stared at them both, my brain reeling from the shock of it.

That’s his brother.

His brother, the templar.

His brother the templar I’d been _so sure_ was dead, or worse.

And he’s there. He’s fine. He’s got his arm around Alex in the most flagrant display of brotherly affection I have ever seen, and I am _so_ not used to seeing mages and templars act that way around each other. I’d been so convinced and Alex had been _so upset,_ but he’s here, he’s _fine,_ he’s okay, for once in this stupid, insane dreamscape, _everything is okay._

Just now, just for this moment, everything is okay.


	20. In Face Of Certain Defeat

Of course, it didn’t last. Because nothing good ever does.

Not to say Nathan didn’t intrigue me. Because he did, for all the obvious reasons. But I was still in the middle of my campaign to avoid Alexander as much as humanly possible and even I could see that interrogating his brother possibly wasn’t the best way of going about that plan. I guess I didn’t know what to make of him, exactly. Alex had said they weren’t close, but given the way they seemed to act, they could’ve fooled me.

Well. Most of the time.

There _were_ hints of something, a weird sort of tension between them that would rear up on occasion; probably because Nathan had this habit of hovering protectively over his younger brother who didn’t seem to appreciate it in the slightest. Which I guess would be understandable on Alex’s part, and I do get it, being a younger sibling myself, but something about it seemed… strained. In a weird subtle way both the Trevelyans seemed aware of but neither wanted to admit. And it only seemed to get more pronounced after Alex was officially declared Inquisitor (yes, with the dramatic sword raising and cheering and everything, we’ve all seen the cutscene).

It was a stupid, silly thing that was both personal for Alex and had no real impact on the plot of the game, which this delusion has astonishingly managed to stick to. Given my stance on avoiding Alex as much as possible in the vain hope he’ll eventually forget I exist, I wasn’t going to pry.

Just stick to my patrols and try to work out what the hell is going on with me. On my own. Without help. And no real understanding of magic or how it works, or what it’s capable of.

Brilliant.

It doesn’t matter. I’m done involving people in my problems here. It wasn’t a good decision in Haven and it’s not a good decision now.

So there. Decision made. No more interacting with recognisable characters. Especially the player character. It’s a bad idea that ends badly because it’s always really bad.

I mean, it’s fine. I’ll just stay up here on what remains of the castle battlements and keep watch for an invading army I know will never come. No one bothers anyone up here. It’s cold and sad and lonely and no one ever comes up to walk the ramparts unless they have a specific reason. And unless you’re assigned to watch up here, then there’s _never_ a specific reason.

She says, conveniently forgetting everything important that happens on the Skyhold ramparts in the game, ever.

I rounded a corner to find, funnily enough, Alexander himself, looking tired and dejected and stressed out his mind but still trying to stand tall and put a brave face to it all, talking with another man – a tall, bearded man, who was running his hand through a mess of untamed jet-black hair, looking equally anxious, but trying a whole lot harder to hide it.

And I froze dead.

_Shit._

I forgot about that.

 _How,_ Emily?

 _How_ did you manage to forget about _that?_

So.

Yeah.

There’s that.

Quickly, I pulled back, pressing myself against the wall of the watchtower, trying to breathe and not daring to move as my brain scrambled to keep up with reality.

Because that’s Hawke.

I mean, yes, _obviously_ it’s Hawke, this is literally the part of the game where Varric drags your previous player character back into the fray when he (in my case, because my Hawke has always been a man) clearly doesn’t want to be involved anymore. So, no one is surprised. Except me. Because I’m an _idiot._

Talking to and befriending Alex is one thing. And I literally just decided not to do that anymore. Hawke is… something else altogether.

Oh my god, he’s right there, I could ask him about _Fenris-_

No. No! Bad Emily! _Bad brain!_

It’s really too bad you don’t get to see Hawke’s love interest with him, because I have a vested interest in seeing Fenris in shinier graphics. I mean, I know it’ll probably never happen on account of the possibility of his death, but… he _could_ show up in future games. Through whacky plot hijinks, right? _Right?_

I need this because of reasons.

Reasons. Yes. All of the reasons.

…I’m supernaturally attracted to angst. I think my Hawke might be, too.

Unable to help myself, I glanced quickly back at the two conversing mages, not really sure what to think. Of either of them. Garrett Hawke looked like Garrett Hawke. Tall, bearded, black haired, yellowish-brown eyes, broad shouldered, built like a brick shithouse, looked like exactly the kind of person who would get into a duel with the Arishok and win. Wearing unnecessarily spiky armour that made him look about six million times more intimidating than he needed to be.

And _Alex-_

Alex was looking better than before, but he still winced in pain whenever pretty much anything at all came into contact with his right shoulder – and there was no hiding the mottled burn scar that peeked out from underneath his tunic, stretching up his neck and flitting along his jawline.

Two absurdly powerful mages having a casual chat about how to hopefully prevent the end of the world.

I never really got how stupidly insane that whole scene was until right now.

Rather than stay there, I opted to quickly make my way far, far away. To the other side of the castle. And then maybe I’d manage to hide in the barracks for a while. I’ve never seen Alex in the barracks. I doubt he’ll corner me there. Too many people. And something tells me that he’d prefer to have that conversation in private.

Even though I obviously don’t know anything about him because I spectacularly failed to notice that he was onto me until it was way too late.

As it happens, I spectacularly failed to notice the footsteps behind me, too.

And then;

“Emilia.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, and for so long, I didn’t move. At all. I was frozen in place, my heart thumping my chest as I realised that I’d finally been cornered, that this was going down no matter what I said or what elaborate shenanigans I tried to come up with to distract him.

If he remembers.

Oh please, _please God,_ don’t let him remember.

Slowly, I turned on my heels to face him, while every fibre of my being _screamed_ at me to run. Alex just stood there, watching me closely, looking impassive. Impassive is never a good thing to see on someone’s face. Especially you know they’re about to accuse you of something you can’t deny.

We both stood there, watching each other for what felt like a small eternity, in which I wanted to die. Many times over.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

It wasn’t a question.

I immediately felt the heat rise to my cheeks at the accusation. “No…?”

He arched an eyebrow at me, clearly not buying it for a second. _“Emilia.”_

Yeah, okay. I suppose that was never going to fly. I groaned loudly and leaned on the parapet, not sure what else to do, and knowing full well I couldn’t flee.

“I- okay. Okay, fine. Whatever. Yes. Maybe.”

He just stood there with his arms folded, unflinching. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t run.”

My eyes widened a little.

“Run?” I repeated blandly. “Why would I run? Where would I run _to?”_

Still, he didn’t move, and his expression remained utterly impassive. “You tell me.”

Uh…

He’s trying to lead me into saying something, admitting something, and I cannot for the _life_ of me work out what it is.

I stood there, not saying anything as my mouth ran dry and I struggled to remember what words were. Fortunately for me, Alex didn’t wait long. He shook his head and let out a small sigh and turned away slightly.

“Just, explain something to me,” he began, all while staring absently out at the snowy peaks that surrounded us, as far as the eye can see. “There’s a girl who is clearly highly educated and with no real discernible background; who kept asking questions about me, kept trying to get to know me, when no one else did. The same girl told me to go after the templars. And the _same girl_ knew about the attack on Haven ahead of time, and didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t-”

“Gathering intelligence on the person with the Anchor. Distracting everyone with the templars, and so allowing Corypheus to gain a far more powerful army of mages. You had Haven scoped out perfectly from the inside; you knew it wouldn’t withstand a siege.”

I blinked several times in shock.

Does he-?

Oh my god.

Oh, my _god._

He thinks I’m a Venatori spy?

_He thinks I’m a Venatori spy._

He can’t-

That’s insane.

This is completely _insane._

Does he _really_ think that, or is that just the only acceptable explanation he’s managed to come up with? He hasn’t turned me in to Leliana, seemingly hasn’t ratted me out to anyone so…?

I don’t know. I have no idea.

And for the first time, I’m pretty sure Alex doesn’t, either.

“All of that, I get,” he continued, his voice low and harsh. “I understand. It makes _sense._ But then you turn around and _save my life._ How is that supposed to help you?”

I swallowed, trying to regain some form of composure while also figuring out a way to reassure him that I wasn’t some super sneaky double agent. That’s giving me a whole lot more credit and making me sound a whole lot more competent than I really am. I mean, I _wish_ I was good enough at acting to have successfully played the entire Inquisition like that, but alas, it’s far from true.

“Alex, I- …it’s not like that,” I managed to squeak out after far too long. “I’m not working for Corypheus.”

“Yeah?” he asked harshly, whirling around and advancing on me, suddenly so much bigger and more terrifying than ever before. “And _how_ exactly am I supposed to believe that?”

I scrambled backwards, until my back hit the wall of the watchtower. I pressed myself into as hard as I possibly could; willing myself to disappear into it and so avoid having this conversation. How do I explain myself? How do I even start that conversation, least of all in a way that’ll end in him actually believing my story? Hell, I know everything about the whole mess and I’m not sure if _I_ even believe my story.

“Because Corypheus wants you dead,” I murmured after what felt like an eternity, my voice shaking as I forced the words out. “And the only reason you’re not is because of me. You _know_ that.”

He stood there, working his jaw, clearly frustrated.

“You knew about the attack,” he accused quietly.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“And you didn’t _warn_ anyone? You have _any_ idea what we lost? How many _lives_ we lost?”

I exhaled quietly, and my eyes flicked up to his face. “You feel guilty.”

His lip curled. “This isn’t about me.”

“No? You’re trying to pin the blame on me so you can absolve yourself. You’re their beloved _Herald of Andraste_ that they put so much faith in and you _failed them.”_

That was harsh. That was absurdly harsh. I didn’t know what else to do. Sometimes, he needs harsh.

“I knew about Haven,” I admitted. “And I knew about the Conclave too, before it happened. Warning people, trying to stop it from happening, might’ve made it worse. That wasn’t a risk I could take.”

There was a silence as he watched me incredulously, struggling to understand the implications of what I was saying. I took that as permission to continue.

“The world is like this because it’s meant to be this way,” I said, my voice low. “Bad things happen because they’re supposed to. Try to take comfort in that.”

Because BioWare wrote it this way. Because the world always follows the same basic plot. Blight, Kirkwall and the mage rebellion, the Inquisition. The Breach, the attack on Haven, the Wardens, the Orlesian court, the Arbor Wilds, the final confrontation. No matter what choices you make, no matter what kind of character you play as – total heroic paragon, complete asshole renegade, anything and everything in between – it’ll always go that way.

Because it’s meant to be this way.

That sounds _so_ goddamn profound.

I _wish_ it had some deeper spiritual meaning than _‘you’re in a story and this is how the story goes’._

“You can’t know that,” he told me, his voice strangled and hoarse.

I didn’t move, my eyes didn’t waver from his face. “You’d be surprised what I know.”

I sound so confident. I guess that’s what I get for meticulously rehearsing this conversation constantly for every waking second of the past week or so.

“You’re not a mage,” was all he managed to say.

I blinked a little in confusion at the observation. “No.”

“What are you, then?” he asked, very quickly going into this weird, authoritarian _I am the Inquisitor_ mode. “Spirit?” there was a brief pause as he gave me a quick once over. _“Demon?”_

“Alex-”

“How do you _know_ all this?” he snarled, as I felt the air around us begin to spark with what I could only assume was the thrum of magic.

His magic.

He is inches away from setting something on fire. Probably me.

I blinked several times and swallowed hard, desperate not to give him an excuse to do to me what I’d seen him to an enemy mage back in the siege of Haven. “I’m not- …it’s complicated.”

“Enlighten me,” he called, his voice now low and somewhat scathing.

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“I don’t know… we were just attacked by an Archdemon and one of the original magisters that caused the Blights. At this point, I’m inclined to believe just about _anything.”_

That’s… a good point.

“I’m human,” I insisted. “I’m not like Cole, or whatever you’re thinking.”

His expression didn’t change. “Cole.”

“Your resident spirit of compassion, yes.”

“You know what he is.”

Not a question.

“Didn’t I _just_ say so?”

“I mean, you know him. You _remember_ him.”

I blinked several times, before realising what I’d just said. Shit. Why can I not stop _fucking up?_ Why does Alex have to be observant enough to _know_ when I fuck up?

“It’s complicated,” I told him, again, because I don’t know how else to explain myself.

 _“Everything_ about this mess is complicated,” he retorted.

Also a good point.

Also must placate him  with a proper answer soon, as in now, as in _right now,_ because I would still like to not end up a smouldering pile of ash, please.

“Look, I… this, the Inquisition… it’s…” I began, only to trail off as I realised I had no damn idea what I was trying to say.

Think. Harder. _Faster._

Alex’s eyebrows rose slightly. “It’s…?” he prompted.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a frustrated sigh. How do I even start? I mean, what in the _hell_ do I _say?_ Must think. Something that explains things but is also cryptic because wow I do not want to get into the specifics. Impart a cryptic bit of nothing that somehow explains everything and nothing. Like Flemeth. Like all of Flemeth’s dialogue. Be like Flemeth. How would she expertly not-explain this?

The Inquisition is, what?

“It-” I began, trying to seem confident. “It’s… it’s a story I’ve heard before.”

Alex just gaped at me, completely at a loss. In his place, I can’t say I would’ve reacted much differently.

I resisted the urge to grin euphorically.

Ha.

Yes.

_Nailed it._


	21. Holding The Universe Together

“I don’t understand.”

I let out a small sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose, not sure how else I could possibly explain myself in terms a mage from a fantasy world stuck permanently in the medieval period would comprehend. But I suppose even without that, it would be a hard concept to grasp. At least he’s trying.

So, I nodded. “That’s fair.”

We’d been at this pretty much all afternoon; back and forth, asking questions, not understanding the answers, demanding clarification, not understanding the clarification, trying to sum it up in terms that are easier to grasp, getting it spectacularly wrong, trying to explain the faults in the analogy, getting unsure _how_ to explain the faults in the analogy, using other analogies to explain the first analogy, analogies for _those_ analogies, writing things down, drawing diagrams, and everything else under the sun.

More than once, someone had tried to interrupt, and Alex had snapped at them to leave every single time, without fail. He’d also snarled at me to quit trying to escape until he had a full grasp on the situation, which was not helpful to me, at all, because the sun is setting and he doesn’t look like he’s planning to retire to his quarters any time soon.

So instead, we did what we should’ve been doing a lot more of in Haven.

We trained. Or tried to, anyway.

“Your stance needs work,” he pointed out bluntly, gesturing vaguely at my feet. “Keep your feet about shoulder-width apart, with your…” he glanced over me and took a moment to think, clearly not used to dealing with the concept of a left-handed person. “…left? Left. Move your left foot slightly back, so your toe is in line with the other heel.”

I glanced down at how I was standing, only to notice that he was right, my feet were too wide apart. With a small, tired groan, I positioned myself as he’d told me.

And apparently, did so spectacularly wrong.

“No, not like that,” he sighed. “Just like- …Andraste, I don’t even know how to explain it, I have to reverse everything in my head.”

I scowled. “Well, _sorry_ for being left-handed.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a _bad_ thing, it’s just difficult to- …you know what? Just mirror me.”

That was an easier request to follow, even though I was exhausted and barely able to focus properly. Every muscle in my arms ached horribly. Muscles that I didn’t even know I had were hurting, screaming at me to put the shield down, at the very least, and collapse on the ground and die for a little while. Not that Alex was going to let me do that. Because I don’t think Alex is going to let me out of his sight ever again.

“Right. Better,” he said, smiling a little through his own exhaustion – nice to know he’s tiring too, that he’s also still mortal. “And bend your knees slightly- yeah, like that. See? You _can_ do it.”

“You are not allowed to patronise me,” I told him sharply.

Alex ignored that and vertically held out his staff at an arm’s length in front of him, his hands placed as far apart as possible. “Let’s try this again.”

My eyes narrowed. “You’re not afraid I’ll hit your hands? Or break your staff?”

At my words, the air around us popped with familiar bluish-green magic; the unmistakable signs of a barrier going up. Part of me is never going to get used to that, I know it. It’s funny, I _know_ what he is, what he’s capable of, but I’m always somehow surprised when I see it in action. It always takes me off-guard when I see flames spring to life in his hands or the heavens thunder overhead at his command. I’ve literally seen him kill people with magic and somehow it still surprises me.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said after I didn’t move. “I’m a little sturdier than you think.”

My eyes automatically moved to his face, to the burn scar that probably at this point looked worse than it was. Perhaps in time, it would fade. But I doubt he’s ever going to be able to grow a beard on the right side of his face ever again.

Rather than think about for more than two seconds, I made a swing – exactly in the way he’d taught me, twisting my body to power the shot – only for his staff to suddenly not be there anymore. I gasped in surprise I felt the wooden shaft hit me square in the side, staggering a little, even though it hadn’t been that hard a hit.

“Keep your shield up,” came the admonishment.

“But it’s heavy,” I complained, like a sulking child.

_“Try.”_

I let out a loud, disgruntled huff and pulled my shield up maybe half an inch higher. “Can’t I learn archery instead?”

The corners of Alex’s lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile.

“You’d have to find yourself a different instructor,” he pointed out.

“Oh come on. His Worship doesn’t know how to shoot?”

 _“His Worship_ is a mage who happens to know a bit of swordplay,” he told me bluntly. “You’re lucky I know _anything_ of use to you. Besides, if you can’t even lift a wooden practice shield, you’re probably not strong enough to pull a bow to full draw.”

“Are you calling me weak?”

“Yes. What are you going to do about it?”

I gritted my teeth. “I _know_ what you’re doing, and I _hate_ that it’s working.”

He just smiled at that. “Good. Now, again. Then we can move on to your off-side shots.”

“You know I’m shit at the off-side shots.”

“Hence the practice. _Again.”_

So I swung, again. And his staff dodged the blow and came flying around to hit my exposed side, again.

“You’re still dropping your shield when you strike.”

My lip curled. “If I strike quickly enough though, I’ll get him before he gets me.”

“Not if _he_ has a shield,” he argued. “It’s not _about_ speed. You have armour and a shield. You need to use them. _Properly.”_

I groaned. “Why couldn’t I be a mage?”

“Magic comes with its own set of problems.”

“But it would be easier to learn.”

“Possibly. But it’s a _lot_ harder to control,” he reasoned.

“You seem to be doing alright at it.”

“I’ve been training to control it since I was ten. And I’ve had to relearn how to cast every spell I know since the Conclave. Everything’s so much more powerful than what I was used to.”

“Because you can rip holes in the Veil?”

He gave a tired nod. “Because I can rip holes in the Veil.”

Something like that had been mentioned before, I knew it. I couldn’t remember how or when exactly, but he’d said something in that vein to me before. Or maybe that had been a headcanon of mine previously, and this was just that making itself known. I don’t know. I’ve long since lost track of which little titbits about his character were unique to this and which were just trivial things I’d come up with beforehand in some vague, half-arsed attempt to flesh him out and make him seem a little more human.

“So, explain this to me again.”

I groaned and squared my shoulders. “Are we really having this conversation again?”

“Do you want help with your… uh, _situation…_ or not? Because I need to understand the problem before I can do anything about it.”

“You won’t be able to help me anyway,” I sighed.

“Let me try.”

I scoffed a little at that, unable to help myself. _There’s_ the unfailingly helpful Alexander Trevelyan who compulsively did every side-quest he came across thanks to a serious case of chronic hero syndrome. I was wondering if I was ever going to end up seeing that side of him again, after Haven.

There are times I forget how insanely primitive life is in Thedas. Like, I know it’s medieval, I’ve always been aware of that, but I don’t know if it’s the presence of magic or the rather forward thinking when it comes to, you know, gender equality and homosexuality, or what have you, but somehow it managed to slip my mind just how hard it is to explain the concept of _computers_ to these people, let alone _video games._

And I have no idea how to begin with that.

“I'm from Earth,” I mumbled after what felt like an eternity.

“Where’s that? North? South? Across the ocean?”

“No. Somewhere _else,”_ I told him, again, wanting nothing more than to start beating my head against my shield in frustration. “Don’t think of it as part of here. It’s like, its own thing. Like… the Fade, sort of.”

“Then why not just _say_ the Fade?”

“Oh for- … _it’s not the Fade,_ Alex.”

“Then-?”

 _“Like_ the Fade. As in, it’s not part of here. Think of it as like, I don’t know… a real, material world, like this one, but not this one. Like another place, beyond the Fade.”

“How can something be _beyond_ the Fade?”

“It’s _not._ Not _literally,_ anyway. I just don’t know how else to describe it in a way you’ll understand. Hell, I don’t know how to explain _anything_ in a way you’ll understand.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’re a lot more technologically advanced than you? And we don’t have magic where I’m from?”

Oh, god.

Should not have said that.

Now he’ll be curious.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, the mage from the magical fantasy world pulled back at that, more genuinely shocked than I’d ever seen him before. “What, like, _at all?”_

I nodded. “None.”

“So you… you don’t have mages? Or the Fade? Or _anything?_ Are you like the dwarves? Don’t you dream?”

“We dream. We just don’t go to a parallel magical spirit dimension to do it.”

“That’s insane.”

Says the mage from the magical fantasy land with a huge burn scar over his shoulder which he got from _dragon fire._

“I still can’t tell you how weird it is every time I run across an elf, though,” I said absently.

That seemed to shock Alex, too. “Are elves different where you come from?”

“We don’t _have_ elves. Or qunari. Or dwarves- …no, wait, we do have dwarves. But it’s a condition, not a race.”

“That… makes _no_ sense.”

“We don’t have dragons, either,” I pointed out cheerfully.

Alex smiled a little at that. “Must be nice. Dragons are a pain.”

And just like that, my eyes were back on his face. “I guess you’d know.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, which told me he really didn’t want to talk about it. “Try the shot again.”

I jumped at his abrupt change of subject. “I- _what?”_

He nodded at the sword in my hand. “Try the shot again. May as well be practising while we talk.”

I glanced away. “I’m still not quite past the irony of being taught swordplay by a mage, you know.”

That didn’t seem to deter him. Like, at all.

“I can go get my brother, if you’d prefer.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Really? He might even teach you some templar techniques.”

“This is embarrassing enough with _you,”_ I sighed, making a half-hearted swing that still ended in a loud _crack_ as the blade impacted his staff, sparks of magic flying out from the point of collision as the barrier did its work. “What happened, exactly?”

“Hmm?”

“Between you and Nathan.”

Alex didn’t meet my eye. “It’s… complicated.”

“Try me,” I challenged. “Honestly, if it’s not _secretly-from-another-world_ complicated, it’s not that complicated.”

I did have a point, and one he had to concede. I could see it in his face.

“Look, it’s not important,” he mumbled after a pause. “Stuff happened when we were still kids – he was trying to protect me, I didn’t see it that way. After that, I was in the Circle and he left for templar training, so we didn’t get any real chance to sort it out.”

“So why don’t you sort it out now?”

“I’m busy.”

“You mean you don’t want to,” I corrected. “Must’ve been bad if you still haven’t moved on.”

Almost the second the words were out of my mouth, Alex dropped both the barrier and his staff all at once, too tired to keep either up any longer. Seeing that as permission, I quickly ditched both the shield and my practice sword and started rubbing my arms furiously, trying to bring the feeling back to them, even if I knew the only feeling I was going to get was more pain.

“He sold me out,” Alex said suddenly, pulling me back into reality with a jolt. "It's been kind of strained ever since."

I jumped in surprise. “He what?”

“Back when- …ah, back when it, um, first started – the magic, I mean – I tried to hide it. I thought it’d just, go away if I ignored it. Nathan found out.”

I bit my lip. I can see where this is going, and it’s nowhere good.

“He called the templars on you?”

“No. He told our parents, and _they_ called the templars on me,” he said with a sigh. “He thought he was doing the right thing. Protecting me. I didn’t agree. It’s _complicated.”_

“So, you’re mad because he got you sent to the Circle?”

Alex, to my surprise, shook his head. “It wasn’t that. It was the fact that he promised me he wouldn’t tell anyone until I was ready.”

A promise that was likely broken almost immediately after it was made.

I chewed my lip, not quite knowing what to say.

“Christ,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Alex shook his head. “Forget it. My family drama isn’t important.”

“But-”

“There are only two things that matter now,” he cut across me, as he bent down and picked up his staff once again. “Stopping Corypheus and getting you back home.”


	22. To Do Good In A Way That No One Knows

I think Alex’s advisors seemed to notice just how frequently their Inquisitor was spotted talking to me, because the week was hardly through and somehow I found myself running messages to Alex from anyone and everyone who wanted even just a small word with him.

I guess I couldn’t blame them for making that assumption. I was talking to him _a lot_ these days.

What I get for finally coming out with the truth, I suppose. All things considered, he took it surprisingly well. Not that I’ve told him any of the potentially world-ending specifics. Such as, _hey, you’re a figment of my imagination._ Because that’s probably just a little too much.

Will I ever get around to telling him that? Or about the dying-but-not-dying-more-like-a-respawn thing? Who knows? I’m yet to decide. All I know is, not right now. Maybe not _ever._

Not that it matters. Not that _any_ of it matters.

Garrett Hawke was leaning against the wall of Skyhold’s main hall – or throne room, or entrance hall, or whatever we’re supposed to call it – grinning like a total idiot in the direction of an entirely unamused Cassandra who stood there, with her arms folded and her face blank, while Varric lurked in a corner, looking equally unimpressed as I passed by, trying my best not to gawk at him like I’d done for days after first seeing Alexander.

To think there was once a time I played this game and didn’t completely lose my mind over the Hawke cameo. Granted, it was before I ever actually played the second game, back when my experience with the series started and ended with Inquisition, but still.

I exhaled softly. Cool. Calm. Collected. Do not draw attention to yourself. Bad enough you have to deal with one player protagonist. Please, for the love of god and all that’s holy, don’t make it two.

Have to count my blessings that his Warden friend is not _the_ Warden, or I would actually die.

“Seeker Pentaghast, I _must_ apologise for Varric’s behaviour,” the Champion of Kirkwall was saying, the stupid grin plastered across his face never fading. “He’s a little short on tact.”

Cassandra just watched him, looking completely lost but trying her best to pass it off as polite indifference.

“These things just keep going way over his head, you know?” he continued without missing a beat. “His ego actually dwarfs all else.”

Behind him, Varric let out a mildly tired sigh and smacked his palm to his forehead. “Dammit, Hawke.”

“You see what I mean?” Hawke all but yelled, gesturing wildly at Varric. “Honestly, you wouldn’t _believe_ how short-sighted he can be.”

At that point Cassandra let out an irritable, somewhat disgusted grunt, and I burst into a fit of laughter. Which of course drew the attention of everyone in the hall. Immediately, I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as my eyes met with Hawke’s. He was beaming at me, apparently thrilled he wasn’t the only person in the world who thought he was funny.

How.

How on _earth_ did a mage that flippant ever manage to get into a real, actual, genuine, long-term serious relationship with Ser Broody Loner Elf?

Then, all of a sudden, something in his expression shifted. His brow creased and he was instead watching me curiously, like he couldn’t quite work something out. Anxiously, I turned back to the door that would lead to a flight of stairs that in turn were the way to Alex’s quarters.

I… do _not_ want to know what that’s about.

I dashed up the stairs, largely without looking, so I only really ha myself to blame when I was met with a face full of tempered steel as I unceremoniously crashed into a man decked out in full armour.

“Whoa, easy,” a concerned voice called, quickly grasping my shoulders in an effort to steady me as I came close to staggering and keeling over from the force of the blow. “Are you alright?”

I blinked several times before realising why that voice was sounding so startlingly familiar.

“You…” I began, trying to refocus on what just happened and what I was doing despite how impossibly difficult that was becoming. “You, ah, you’re… you’re Alex’s…”

Nathan Trevelyan arched an eyebrow at me. “Brother. I’m his brother.”

Oh good. That’s just like what Alex would’ve said. Sass run must in the family.

And suddenly I have an overwhelming desire to go to Ostwick and meet the parents, the third brother and the sister. Just to make sure.

I quickly found myself racking my brain for anything and everything Alex has ever told me about his family. What did he say his sister’s name was? Violet? Is _she_ going to suddenly show up in Skyhold too? And who was the third brother? Had he told me _anything_ about him? Nathan, Alexander, Violet, and…? Ah, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I should ask. Because I haven’t pried into his life enough already, apparently.

What about the parents? What are their names? What are they like? Are they aware that they have distant family ties to a noble house of Tevinter? What would that mean to them?

I blinked several times, in some sad attempt to recover myself, before inclining my head respectfully.

“A-apologies, my lord,” I managed in a strangled voice. “I didn’t see you.”

The corners of Nathan’s lip quirked at my words. “Emilia, right?”

I froze. “I- …what?”

His smile didn’t fade as he manoeuvred himself past me. “He’s in his quarters.”

And then he was gone, leaving me standing stock still, still trying to process what just happened.

Did I just successfully have a normal conversation with someone in the Dragon Age universe without screwing it up? Did that actually just happen?

I quickly elected not to think about it and continue making my way to Alex’s quarters at the top of this ridiculously tall tower. Because the second I start thinking about it is the second I make some catastrophic mistake.

“Hey Alex,” I called cheerfully as I finally reached the top of the stairs and made my way through the door. “There are- … _oh my god.”_

He pulled back from the mirror, whirling around to face me, eyes wide and expectant. He was, for the record, entirely shirtless at this point, the razor in his hand quickly clattering in the basin he’d been using. I just stood in the doorway, trying my absolute goddamn hardest not to totally perve on him and utterly failing.

Because, man.

Shit.

Shit, he’s hot.

I mean, come on. He was always handsome, that was never in doubt. I just didn’t realise he was _fucking ripped_ as well. Though he does a _lot_ of strenuous physical exercise, so I don’t know why I’m so surprised by this. Maybe because he’s a mage, and I expect them to be a little… well… slight? He’s slight enough that he can successfully his physique under his clothes, though, so…

Stop.

Stop it right now.

Meanwhile, he just watched me expectantly. “Emilia?”

_“…abs.”_

“What?”

I blinked. “What?”

There was an agonisingly long pause that somehow only increased in awkwardness as it went on, until I finally managed to force my eyes up to his face, in a desperate attempt to avoid being a total letch and pervert. Alexander just stood there, watching me and waiting patiently for me to recollect myself.

I blinked several times. “I- uh…”

“Yes?”

“…you shaved,” I managed after an eternity.

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”

“And cut your hair,” I noted as well, nodding up at his previously-shoulder-length mop of dark brown hair that had been cut incredibly short, and now looked something incredibly close to the haircut I originally gave him. Suddenly, for the first time since I got here, he looked clean, well-groomed, and like the kind of person who commanded an army and influenced just about everything across the southern half of the continent.

Well, good. Finally. It’s been a while since Haven happened. I was starting to wonder if he was simply content to wander around looking like a crazy dishevelled asshole who failed to run from the business end of a dragon.

Alex shifted and ran a hand through what remained of his hair, self-conscious now. “I- …yeah. Had to. A lot of it got singed.”

At his words, my eyes automatically trailed down to the scar that stretched across his right shoulder and up his neck, and automatically winced. I couldn’t help it. I’m not going to pretend it’s nearly half as bad as it was when it was fresh, or that it’s in any way truly disfiguring. But it’s still a pretty serious scar and just looking at it reminds me of what happened in Haven.

Why? Why does this still bother me? How long has it been now? I don’t know. A bit over a week? Somehow, I can’t ignore it. I forget what happened.

Dude, we were attacked by a _dragon._ I saw people get burned alive. I came face-to-face with death for a moment before the man standing shirtless in front of me killed the attacker with a well-timed lightning strike.

The Not-An-Archdemon got him pretty badly. I have to wonder if he’s going to escape at all next time.

He will. Of course he will. He’s _Alex-goddamn-Trevelyan._ His game-self is thirteen dragons down and no worse for wear. I’m sure the Emily’s delusion version of Alex will survive just fine.

And yes, I killed all the dragons in the game. _Of course_ I killed all the dragons in the game. They’re fun boss fights that make me feel like a total badass and quite frankly, I _need_ the loot. I’d feel bad about killing them, but… they’re raging death monsters and Dragon Age wouldn’t be very _Dragon Agey_ if there weren’t any dragons in it. So it’s not like hunting them all in Inquisition is driving them back to extinction.

“So,” Alex began, pulling away from the basin and picking up a shirt he’d discarded on the bed, quickly slipping into it, causing me to snap back into reality.

I arched an eyebrow. “So?”

“Is there a specific reason you’re here?”

Oh, right. Yeah. That.

I coughed a little awkwardly. “Uh, right. Yeah… um, Ambassador Montilyet sent me. They’re having a war council in about half an hour, and she needs you there.”

He groaned. _“Another_ one?”

“…ye-es?”

“I swear, I’m going to end up spending half my life moving pieces around that table,” he groaned, again, though this time it was mostly to himself.

I smiled slyly. “Do it for Josephine?”

He stopped dead, staring at me like I was totally insane. “Oh no. Don’t start that. Not again.”

“Why can’t you just admit that you like her?” I bemoaned tiredly, using every ounce of my self-control not to facepalm. “I _know_ you like her.”

His lip curled slightly. “You certainly like to think you do.”

 _No,_ I wanted to scream at him. I know. I actually know. I know you like her because I played as you and I romanced Josephine with you. If you were anyone else, any one of my other Inquisitors, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Or we _would,_ but it would be about someone else.

Alex either paid no attention to my obvious frustrated expression, or didn’t see it at all. He crossed the room to the writing desk that sat in the corner, scooping up a pile of paperwork he’d clearly been trying to work on – and if I knew Alex, had made no headway with whatsoever.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “It’s too soon.”

My eyes narrowed. “Too soon?”

What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?

He jerked in surprise upon realising that I’d heard him. “I- …no, forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“Alex,” I called his name sternly.

“When was that war council supposed to happen? I have a sudden urge to go. Now. Right now.”

_“Alexander.”_

He paid no attention to me, hastily gathering up his things and making a dash for the door.

“Look, if I’ve hit a nerve…” I began, trailing off into silence as he paused at the top of the flight of steps.

He shook his head. “It’s personal.”

“I gathered. Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

Before I could get so much as another word in, he disappeared, slamming the door behind him in his rush to get out. I stood there, completely motionless and not quite sure what in the hell just happened. He’s never been so keen to escape a conversation, ever.

I… must’ve hit quite the nerve.

And now I’m alone, in the Inquisitor’s room, wondering what I did to make him pull such a hasty disappearing act. My only clue is that it’s personal. So personal he’s not even going to consider sharing it with me.

Now to decide if I’m genuinely nosy enough to investigate behind his back.

I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. Does it matter? Does knowing everything there is know about him honestly matter to me _that_ much?

Yes. No. Maybe?

With a heavy sigh, I exited the room myself, headed back down the obscenely long flight of steps, keeping a careful look out for the one person I was comfortable talking to who could help me get to the bottom of this.

Thankfully, he hadn’t gone far. Almost the instant I emerged back into the hall, I spotted him, lurking against the wall and watching the grouped dignitaries with a passing interest. Carefully, quietly, I sidled up to him, anxiously tapping his shoulder to get his attention.

Almost immediately, he turned.

“We meet again,” he said with a slight smile the instant he saw me standing there.

I shifted awkwardly from side to side, wondering if I was going way too far with this and yet, being completely unable to stop myself.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked quietly.

His eyebrows rose slightly at that. “About what?”

“Your brother.”


	23. Memories Tear You Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, I've seen a few comments revolving around the same topic (namely, romance and shipping) and I feel the need to give just a friendly reminder that this is (still) a genfic.

“So, let me get this straight,” Nathan Trevelyan began the instant he was sure we weren’t being spied on, despite the tavern being full of the Inquisition’s most boisterous and, more importantly, most drunk members. “You want me to tell you all of my little brother’s dirty childhood secrets because… you want to help him to get with the ambassador?”

Oh, god. Don’t say it like that. That’s not what I’m trying to do at all.

I mean, sure, I’d _like_ it if Alex could just like, follow my game choices for him in at least _one_ instance, and _clearly_ there’s potential there, because he obviously likes her, but just refuses to admit it to himself. But it’s not about that.

Shut up, it _isn’t about that._

I coughed a little awkwardly and glanced away. “I want to help him sort out his shit and reconnect with people.”

He let out a shout of laughter at that. “He’s never been very good at either of those.”

I was starting to get that idea, yeah, but I didn’t tell him that.

Nathan Trevelyan was distinctly more easy-going than his forever kind of uptight younger brother, given just how quickly he steered us towards the tavern with the intent of drowning himself in alcohol and dragging me down with him. I couldn’t tell if that was down to just their respective personalities, or if being Inquisitor had really stressed Alex out just that much.

Come to think of it, have I ever known Alex to be not at all stressed? Has that _ever_ happened?

I… think my Inquisitor might have an anxiety disorder. That might even manage to explain a few things. Not like I haven’t seen him in the middle of a panic attack masquerading as an existential crisis before.

Not that anyone here even knows what an anxiety disorder is.

Oh, that’s great. That’s just- that’s _great._ That’s just what I need.

One day, _one day,_ I will have a game protagonist who isn’t drowning in deep seated emotional issues they either can’t or refuse to acknowledge. One day, it’ll happen. One day, I’ll play an RPG and the player character will be a normal, well-adjusted person, with no dead family, no universe on their shoulders, and no budding posttraumatic stress disorder.

She says, like that’s not part of the whole reason she’s drawn to RPGs to begin with.

What? Maybe I like my characters a little emotionally broken. Why is that surprising? Why do you think I compulsively romance Fenris every time I play DA2? Maybe it’s because I like his voice. Or maybe it’s because of his _mountain of crippling trauma._ Actual trauma that he does genuinely have, as opposed to a certain _wangsty emotionally abusive manipulative gaslighting terrorist piece of shit mage_ I know.

And the days-since-Emily-last-mentioned-her-unbridled-fury-at-Anders counter is reset to zero.

Nathan let out an exhausted sigh and squared his shoulders, bringing me sharply back into reality – well, _Dragon Age_ reality, at least. “You know he’ll kill you when he finds out about this. _And_ me.”

I waved it off. “He’s mature enough to realise I’m trying to help him.”

Again, Nathan let out a shout of cynical laughter. “Ha! _Right._ You have _met_ him, haven’t you?”

One might ask why I’ve turned to the templar I’ve barely met for all of two minutes to help me rat out whatever Alex is trying so hard to hide rather than, you know, the _mind reading spirit of compassion._ And that’s a good question. The answer is, I’m _terrified_ of talking to Cole. About anything. I just know that the second I track him down – already a nigh on impossible task as I’ve never even seen him, and if I have, he hasn’t let me remember (ah… god, I was just getting good at _not thinking about that)_ – and say two words to him, he’s going to dredge up a bunch of deep seated emotional issues of mine that I really not want or need to deal with right now.

So. Nathan.

Nathan Trevelyan, the templar.

Nathan Trevelyan, the templar who sold his brother out to the Circle and has a strained relationship with Alex at best.

Good plan.

No, really. This is just, the _best_ plan.

Sarcastically thought the sarcastic girl to herself with an unmistakable air of sarcasm, sarcastically.

“Alexander has a bad track record when it comes to people trying to help him,” Nathan muttered under his breath as he emptied what remained in his stein and slammed it back down on the counter, before silently signalling for another drink.

I didn’t meet his eye. “Because you ratted him out.”

Nathan blinked several times, glancing at me with his eyebrows raised. “How do you _know_ about that?”

I shrugged innocently. “Maybe he told me.”

Wow. That’s not even a lie.

It’s so _weird_ to think that’s not actually a lie. It feels like it should be. It sounds _exactly_ like one of my lies. But it’s not. I’m not even lying. Jesus, I’m _always_ lying. I didn’t realise just how much I _was_ lying until right now, upon being shocked to realise that I’m actually telling the truth.

Once again, he laughed, but it was distinctly more bitter than before – an achievement, to be sure. “Wow. You really _are_ close with him.”

“You had _doubts?”_

He barely reacted to my almost outraged – I spent a lot of time and effort trying to weasel my way into Alex’s friendship circle, okay? – question.

“I know Alex,” he told me bluntly. “He’s not fast to make friends. And as you can see, he keeps a grudge.”

I chewed my lip, a little uncertain I wanted to get into this conversation. I mean, I _got_ why Alex felt the way he did about it. I understood that whole not-always-rational anger at the older sibling for any perceived slight against you, real or imagined. But Nathan seemed… I don’t know. Outgoing. Friendly. Kind of laid back. Not at all anything close to what I’d expected from the templar of the family.

This whole thing between them is proving to be a complicated web of anger and resentment, and I’m not sure I want to get involved.

Actually, it seems like exactly the kind of thing that would inevitably attract Cole. I wonder if he’s tried untangling it yet. I wonder if it’ll be that easy.

I doubt it. Fourteen years is a long time for things to fester.

“Well,” I muttered. “You did sell him out.”

Why. Why did I say that. Why, why, _why_ did I _say_ that?

Nathan’s lip curled just slightly and his grip on his stein tightened. “Emilia, do you have _any_ idea what mages are capable of?”

Immediately, I was greeted with a flash of the smoking, ruined remains of a Venatori mage lying in the snow after a trail of blood and destruction as residual electricity crackled in air and sparked along Alex’s staff.

A shiver went up my spine at the thought. “I… have an idea, yes.”

“That’s only a _fraction_ of what an abomination can do,” he muttered, staring absently into his drink. “Alex was _ten_ when he came into his magic. He wanted to hide it, pretend like if he ignored it, it’d all go away. But it doesn’t _work_ like that.”

Oh man. And here I was so determined not to get into the dark recesses of the rift between the Trevelyan brothers after Alex told me what happened.

Edgily, I glanced at Nathan, who wasn’t looking at me, being too absorbed in his drink. I don’t know if this is just about setting the record straight, or simply getting something he needs off his chest. Or both.

…maybe it’s both.

“After a couple of days, he stopped sleeping,” he murmured, his eyes glazed over somewhat, clearly a million miles away now. “He stopped eating soon after. He was angry and scared… he lashed out at our sister once. She came running to me in tears because Alex had screamed at her and she didn’t understand why.”

He trailed off, making a point of looking away, probably so I wouldn’t see how upset he was getting over just talking about it. And it was at this point I was reminded, once again, that I couldn’t really imagine what that must have been like for them. For him.

Alex hadn’t told me any of the gory details. But of course he hadn’t. No one wants to remember a part of their life like that. And to be fair, he had said that he realised Nathan had been trying to protect him. Maybe he knew that objectively, but his emotions hadn’t changed. Or he couldn’t change them. Maybe everything was so ingrained it was difficult, maybe even impossible, to think of it differently.

Fourteen years of festering.

Fourteen years of a festering emotional wound I’m not sure even Cole will be able to heal.

“You have _no_ idea how terrifying it is, watching your little brother do that to himself,” Nathan continued, his voice cracking despite his attempts to keep his composure. “I knew that if he didn’t get help, if he didn’t go to the Circle, he was going to either fall to a demon, or kill himself trying to avoid them.”

He grimaced slightly, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the memory, or the alcohol. “I kept looking at my brother and all I could see was what he’d become if a demon got to him. I figured, I’d rather him be angry at me forever and never speak to me again than to see him get twisted into a monster.”

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. “You two… _really_ need to talk to each other.”

Talk to each other. Sort this out. Quit this whole weirdly tense talking to each other but not really talking to each other because it’s mostly all for show thing.

Nathan snorted at my suggestion. “Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Alexander doesn’t _talk,”_ he told me flatly. “Not to me, and not about things like this. He doesn’t talk and he doesn’t change his stance. He’s way too stubborn for that.”

All thanks to a colossal willpower which makes him a good mage. At the cost of being a good communicator.

“And besides,” he grunted, “it doesn’t really matter to me.”

I choked.

What?

_What?_

He’s just told me that the whole fiasco came from a place of love, and now he’s turning around and saying he doesn’t want to _fix it?_ Doesn’t want to have a decent relationship with his brother again? What kind of crazy backwards logic is _that?_

 _“Why?”_ I gasped when I finally managed to breathe properly again.

Nathan didn’t meet my eye.

“He’s alive,” he told me bluntly, knocking back the last of his drink. “He’s trained. And he’s _safe._ In the end, that’s all that matters to me. If he wants to hate me, he can hate me.”

My head slammed against the counter. “You two are actually like, the whole problem with mages and templars _personified.”_

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh yeah? How so?”

“You’re both stubbornly refusing to understand each other,” I pointed out. “And neither of you care about talking because you both kind of _want_ to hate each other.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off by a shout.

_“Emilia!”_

Immediately, I bolted upright and twisted around to face the door, where Alexander himself stood, looking a little wild and somewhat frazzled.

“Emilia,” he called again as he spotted me, quickly making his way over, carefully manoeuvring his way through the crowded tavern until he reached us.

I swallowed, hoping to God this wasn’t him realising I’d gone behind his back and started conspiring with his brother to unearth things he obviously doesn’t want me knowing. Hoping he wasn’t going to look at me sitting next to Nathan and deduce that the other side of that story had come out.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked me, all while anxiously wringing his hands and giving a sideways glance to Nathan. _“Alone?”_

“Oh, _alone?”_ Nathan repeated, smiling crookedly. “This _must_ be important. I’m _intrigued.”_

Alex’s lip curled. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“I know. That’s why I’m intrigued.”

Alex glanced back at me, silently asking me for help.

I shrugged and leaned back, knowing that if I insisted to Nathan that he leave, it would only arouse more suspicion. I had one Trevelyan determined to rat out my secret by any means necessary. I don’t fancy going through that again. That, and I’m not sure I can explain the situation to a non-mage quite as easily.

“I’m all ears,” I told him cheerfully.

“Looks like you’re not getting her away from here, Alex.”

Alexander ignored his older brother like a professional, keeping his focus solely on me.

“I had an idea,” he told me, his voice wavering just slightly, like he wasn’t totally sure of himself.

My eyebrows rose curiously. “You- …are you going to elaborate, or should I start playing the guessing game?”

Beside me, Nathan burst into a fit of laughter. “Oh, I _like_ her.”

“Nathan, for the love of the Maker and holy Andraste, _stop talking,”_ Alex snarled at him with the kind of hostility he typically reserved for situations when he was _really_ quite stressed.

“So?” I asked, trying to calm the situation somewhat. “What’s up?”

“I think I might know how you can get home.”


	24. A Question He Wanted To Spend His Whole Life Answering

I stared.

For so long, that’s all I did.

I sat there, and I stared. My mouth opened and closed several times as I tried and failed to think of absolutely anything to say, at all. My mind went completely blank. Nothing processed. Everything came to a grinding halt and I was left adrift in a thoughtless sea of absolutely nothing.

Just, blank.

No thoughts. No feelings. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Meanwhile, Alex slowly eased himself into the seat next to me, his expression twisted into some weird amalgamation of relief and anxiety (don’t ask me how those two things go together), while Nathan looked from me to Alex and back again several times over the course of just a few seconds, not sure what to do with anything, least of all my complete and utter blue-screening.

Emily.exe has stopped working.

“…I think you broke her.”

I felt a hand gently clasp mine. “Emilia?”

I didn’t respond.

“Yeah. You definitely broke her.”

 _“Funny._ Emilia, say something, please.”

Automatically, I tried my best to respond. Somehow. To give some indication that I’d heard him, that I hadn’t suffered a total mental breakdown. Which was only getting harder and harder to prove the longer I struggled to get something moving, anything at _all_ working, only to get the same results as before. What’s the point in pretending I haven’t suffered a complete and total mental breakdown? I have. I absolutely have. That’s not something I can hide. They’ve already noticed.

“Uh…” I began, not aware I was even making noise for a moment. “Uh? Um?”

Nathan sighed and leaned back. “What did I tell you? Broken.”

Alexander’s lip curled just slightly at his words. “You’re _not helping.”_

“Hey now, _I’m_ not the one who made her shut down. What’s so important about her getting home, anyway? Aren’t you guys in the middle of a war?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated _how?”_

Alexander groaned loudly and smacked his palm to his forehead. “Why do you _always_ do this?”

“Do what?”

“Weasel your way into _every single conceivable_ aspect of my life like you have any right to be there.”

“You’re my little brother-”

“I’m _twenty-four,”_ Alex shot back scathingly. “And I was doing _just fine_ on my own. You don’t need to hover over me.”

“You got attacked by an army and an Archdemon.”

“Which would’ve happened whether you’d been there or not,” Alex bit back, clearly in no mood to be tolerable.

And I say that like he’s _ever_ in a mood to be tolerable.

I blinked several times, only now seeing the two concerned faces watching me. My eyes darted from one to the other, and I started chewing my lip anxiously for no real reason.

“You both look really alike,” I managed in a strangled voice after what felt like the most agonising eternity that has ever existed, ever.

Alex coughed awkwardly and glanced away in response to my comment, while Nathan just arched an eyebrow, probably more out of sheer curiosity than anything else.

“We’re brothers,” he told me bluntly. “Blood relations tend to look similar, so I hear.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean… you’re _really_ alike. Like you could be twins,” I glanced over him, silently re-evaluating my statement. “Maybe not _identical,_ but twins.”

Nathan pulled back at that, mildly affronted. “Excuse you, he’s _three years_ younger than me.”

Alex smiled to himself. I don’t think he could help it. “Most people wouldn’t complain about looking younger than they are.”

 _“Most_ people don’t find themselves being compared to _your_ baby face,” Nathan shot back without missing a beat, before almost immediately knocking back whatever remained of his drink – for like, the fifth time. “Speaking of, _oh Lord Inquisitor,_ how’d you get the scar? It looks new.”

Alex’s hand shot to his face where the burn scar was its most obvious, but other than that, barely reacted.

“Dragon,” he replied monotonously, before glancing over at his brother once again, nodding slightly at a not inconsiderable scar that ran over Nathan’s eye, down his cheek, finishing just above his jawline. “What about you? You didn’t have _that_ last time I saw you.”

“You know, it’s a funny story-”

 _“Home!”_ I screamed over Nathan, so loudly that half the tavern abruptly stopped talking and I immediately felt countless pairs of eyes on me. “I- uh… you said- something- something about home?”

Alex had leaned back slightly when I’d screamed, and was now watching me somewhat quizzically while Nathan – for like, the _fifth time_ – signalled the barkeep for yet another refill. He must have racked up _quite_ the tab by this point, just on his own.

Evidentally, Nathan noticed my mildly concerned look.

“Oh, relax,” he told me gently, reaching behind me and slapping Alex on the back. “Brother dear’s good for it.”

Alex let out a quiet groan, but didn’t snap back like I was half expecting him to. Instead, he gave me a meaningful look and gestured at the door. With a small sigh, I stood up, not really knowing what else to do. He wasn’t going to say anything with Nathan in earshot – he’s _so_ much better at keeping secrets than I am. That’s a conclusion I come to every day when I notice him glancing anxiously around for people who could be eavesdropping, or just generally when he hovers protectively over me, now that he’s aware of just how impossibly clueless I am when it comes to having what it takes to survive in Thedas.

He cares. He cares so _damn much._ And here I still can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

“Oh, and Alex?” Nathan called as I was ushered through the door. “You might want to tell her about Matthias.”

Alex stopped dead in his tracks, before swivelling around to face him, looking as though he was inches away from murder.

“Keep. _Out of it,”_ he snarled dangerously, only to turn back around and push his way past me, suddenly desperate to get far, far away from the tavern.

For so long, I stood rooted to the spot, completely at a loss. I knew that name. I’d heard it before.

“Matthias?” I repeated, utterly confused. “Didn’t you mention him once? A friend of yours from the Circle, or something?”

The friend he lost at the Conclave-

…oh.

_Too soon._

I smacked my palm to my forehead. “Oh my god. I’m an _idiot.”_

Alex shook his head. “No. I’m not doing this. Not right now.”

“Alex-”

 _“Later,”_ he told me firmly. “Okay? Can we just- can we do that later?”

I sighed, but relented. I didn’t really need any details. I could deduce what happened well enough. So instead, I squared my shoulders.

“So, your answer?”

“What?”

“Home?” I said, gesturing wildly at myself. “Your answer for me getting out of here?”

He exhaled softly and ran a hand through his now sort of jarringly short hair, despite the fact that this was far closer to the haircut I’d given him in-game, but the overgrown mop had kind of grown on me. I wonder if he’ll grow it out again. Man, I’m going to have to completely restart his campaign and change his hair so it’s longer until Haven because I am a _stickler_ for accuracy and it’s never going to sit right with me if his game-self doesn’t match his Emily’s-Dragon-Age-delusion-self.

And that’ll be another one hundred hours, gone. Bam. Done. Over. All because here he had to go and _side with the templars_ and generally have a _character_ and a _backstory_ and what have you.

Curse me and my anal-ness.

“Not sure I’d call it an _answer,”_ he mumbled, not really looking me in the eye. “It’s just an idea. But I can’t think of anything else, and-”

 _“Alex,”_ I cut across him harshly, folding my arms and tapping my foot against the ground impatiently. “What’s your _idea?”_

Still, he refused to look at me. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Please stop stalling and tell me.”

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck incessantly like he does when he’s stressed. “You, ah, remember what you said to me? About the Inquisition being like a story you’d heard before?”

My brow creased. “Yes?”

“It got me thinking. All stories have to end eventually, right? Even this one.”

I arched an eyebrow. “And?”

“Maybe all you have to do is see it through.”

See it through? Like, to the end? He means I should just sit tight and watch it all happen and generally wait until this all blows over?

I coughed. “I’m sorry? _That’s_ your idea? Just _wait it out?”_

“You have anything better?” he shot back at me.

I threw my hands into the air and turned away. “No. I guess not. But that’s _shit,_ Alex.”

“I did say you weren’t going to like it.”

“Of course I don’t! That could take _years!”_

Depending on if Trespasser is being included in this story. And if it is, then… I glanced over at Alex, trying my best to ignore the gnawing feeling of dread in my gut.

I don’t know how that story ends.

Somehow, I’m not even surprised the fact that I haven’t quite finished Trespasser has come back to bite me. That sounds like exactly the kind of thing that would do that. I mean, I can guess what happens, but all my assumptions keep going places I’d rather not think about. Places like, _Alex is going to die_ and _Solas will probably kill him if the Anchor doesn’t_ and _everything is going to be shit forever._

I bit my lip anxiously. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want Alex to die. The longer I’m here the less I want him to die. And I was pretty goddamn attached to him even _before_ I met him here, as a real person. I just love this game and I love my characters so much and he’s here, he’s _real,_ I’m standing here and I’m talking to him and I’ve met his brother and he’s real, he’s so, _so real,_ he’s here and he has thoughts and feelings and he’s a _person_ and he _exists_ and… _and…_

Fuck.

Fuck it, fuck this, fuck him, fuck the situation, fuck emotions, fuck attachments, fuck BioWare, fuck _Dragon Age,_ fuck everything about this insanity right now.

“I suppose that’s it, then?” I asked, mostly myself. “Better get comfortable, Emily, you’re in this for the long haul.”

Alex almost immediately made a point of looking away, in some vain attempt to hide his smirk. “And here you were doing _so well,”_ he sighed a little wistfully.

My eyes narrowed. “What?”

 _“Emily,”_ he echoed back at me.

“I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

 _“Damn it._ Alright, fine,” I growled to no one in particular, offering Alex my hand. “May as well do this properly this time.”

Lying was always too complicated. May as well see how far honesty gets me.

Alex’s eyes darted from my face to my outstretched hand several times, clearly at a complete loss of what I was doing or what he planned to do about it. Until after what was possibly to most agonising eternity, he gingerly took it.

 “Hi,” I murmured, my eyes finally meeting his. “I’m Emily Grace Taylor-Moore. I’m a compulsive lair from another world who kind of knows the basic narrative of your immediate future.”

He didn’t bother to hide the widening smile that pulled at the corners of his lips now. “I hope this means no more hiding.”

I sighed.

“No more hiding,” I agreed quietly. “For _either_ of us. Full disclosure.”

I expected him to balk at that, given how tightly he likes to cling to his secrets, but he just nodded, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s good to meet you, Emily.”


	25. There Was A Boy Who Loved A Girl

There was a lot of talking that night – with the both of us casually hanging out on Alex’s huge stone balcony that overlooked the rest of Skyhold, from which he could survey the goings-on of the entire castle and the surrounding mountains. It was a pretty killer view, honestly. Actually, it was exactly the kind of view I’d wanted all my life, despite knowing where I lived was both too flat and too warm a climate for any of that snowy mountains nonsense. Just one more reason I opted to live vicariously through video games, I guess. Even if that _does_ end in me having a complete psychotic break and slipping into what I’m sure is by far the most realistic delusion anyone has ever had about anything, ever.

And it all felt so damn _natural,_ leaning on the stone balustrade, feeling the icy cold wind bite at any exposed skin, having a surprisingly candid conversation with a man who I know can only be a figment of my imagination, despite how goddamn _real_ he seems to me. But I suppose everything seems real when trapped in a delusionary version of a video game fantasy land. When everything is imaginary, when there’s nothing _real_ to compare it to, how are you supposed to tell the difference? How is _anyone?_

It feels so real and I guess it kind of is, in its own way, but I’m also painfully aware that it isn’t. That everything here – all the people, all the problems, everything from the smooth stonework of the castle’s walls to the wind in my face to the snow dusting the mountains that stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction one could care to look – is me. Me and my perceptions of people and a world that doesn’t _really_ exist. Maybe this is all just my yearning for escapism taken to its most extreme.

How bad does mundane life have to be to have me trap myself in a world famous for its political strife, its wars, dragons, and the Blight?

And it is so. Goddamn. _Real._

Is this it? Is this what the Fade is like? Being unable to discern the difference between fantasy and reality? Trapped in a strange middle ground between reality and a dream? Being trapped inside your own mind, knowing something is terribly wrong and that you have to get out but not having even the faintest idea of how to do that?

I glanced uneasily at Alex, who was staring idly off into the distance.

Is this like what the Envy demon did to him?

That quest did freak me the hell out the first and only time I went with the templars. More so than the crazy time travel adventure you get when siding with the mages. Something about being forced to fight a demon inside your head, it’s… I don’t know. It scared me. It scared me a whole lot more than it had any right to. I can’t really imagine what it would’ve been like to actually _live_ it.

“Hey, Alex…” I began awkwardly, shifting just enough so I was facing him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What happened to you at Therinfal Redoubt?”

He blinked in surprise at the question – and I guess that was to be expected, as it was a little left of field. I probably should’ve asked him this back when, you know, actually happened, but at the time I’d been so preoccupied with everything going on it hadn’t really occurred to me. And besides, he didn’t seem to suffer any negative effects and he was preoccupied with the possibility of Nathan being either dead or corrupted and all that. And _I’d_ been distracted with the upcoming siege of Haven I knew was coming.

After a brief pause, Alex turned to me, arching an eyebrow. “Where is _this_ coming from?”

“What?”

“Therinfal was _months_ ago,” he told me, apparently worried I didn’t realise that.

“I know.”

“…not to mention the siege and a dragon attack that happened since.”

“I _know.”_

“So, _why_ the sudden interest?”

I looked away, shrugging gently. “We never spoke about it, but… it sounded pretty intense.”

He looked at me a little oddly. “They didn’t cover that in this story version of my life you’re so familiar with?”

I shrugged. “Story-you didn’t go after the templars.”

_“What?”_

I didn’t meet his eye. “Alex, we’ve been over this.”

 _“Have_ we? You’d think I’d remember you mentioning that before.”

I groaned and ran a hand through my hair. “Okay… maybe not _exactly_ this. But remember when I said it was kind of… uh, interactive? How whoever’s being _told_ the story sort of _controls_ it, to a degree?”

He was leaning slightly away from me now, like he was kind of scared of this conversation. And honestly, I couldn’t blame him. Trying to imagine this conversation from his perspective was easily enough to do my head in. Guess I’m fortunate that he’s real accustomed to _weird ass shit._

Perks of playing a mage, I guess?

“Ye-es?” he answered slowly.

Oh my god how do I word this what do I say this was a stupid idea I hate honesty it’s the worst policy whose stupid idea was it to go with honesty this sucks everything is bad forever why do I even bother and now I can’t go back to what it was like before because there’s no take-backsies for this kind of thing and nothing is going to work ever again.

Hey, here’s a fun new game – _how the hell do you explain the concept of video games to a video game character?_

“Well, you…” I stammered, trying to calm myself. “You’re a mage. I guess allying with the templars didn’t seem like an option for you.”

He just stared at me in shock. “It didn’t occur to you? It didn’t even _once_ occur to you that maybe I’d want to go after my brother?”

“Honestly? I didn’t know you _had_ a brother. You were just an ex-Circle mage to me. It seemed logical you’d want to help the rebellion.”

Alex shook his head and refused to meet my eye. “That’s not- …you know, I’m getting the feeling that this is not a conversation I want to have.”

I nodded. “Good call. Tell me about Therinfal?”

He squared his shoulders, still mildly uncomfortable. “What’s there to tell? It was a mess. The officers had lost their minds to red lyrium. Lord Seeker Lucius was an envy demon. I got trapped in the Fade for a moment. A lot of people died.”

“And what was that like?” I asked, maybe too curious for my own good at this point. “The Fade?”

“I take it you’ve had a nightmare before?”

“Yes.”

“It was like that. Except you can’t wake up, and you’re keenly reminded every passing second that if you _don’t_ escape somehow, you’ll be trapped there forever while a demon steals your identity and proceeds to completely ruin the world, torture and kill everyone you care about, and they’ll blame you for it, never realising it’s a monster wearing your face.”

Oh.

That sounds… about right, actually.

“I see. Must’ve been fun,” I murmured, not entirely sure what else to say.

“Mm,” was the only response he seemed to give, running his hand through his hair in that way he does when he’s a little stressed or uncomfortable. Which is all the time. Because he’s possibly suffering from an anxiety disorder.

“Still,” I chirped, trying to lighten the mood even after I intentionally brought it down in the first place with my chosen conversation topic. “It was just a demon, right? Bet you deal with those all the time.”

Alex didn’t look at me. “Envy’s different. It’s rare, and doesn’t actually possess you… at least, not technically. You don’t get trained for that. I never really considered the possibility of running into one before. But, then again, it’s just one more thing on the list of things I didn’t think I’d have to deal with.”

“You got out, though.”

“Barely,” he said, still mindlessly out at the horizon. “And entirely thanks to Cole.”

I nodded and glanced away. “Oh- oh yeah. Cole. I totally forgot.”

“That _is_ something of a trend with him.”

I chewed my lip uncomfortably, unable to help myself. “Has he spoken to you?”

Finally, he turned to face me, eyes narrowing slightly. “About anything specific, or just in general?”

He’s actively giving me an out. I could make up anything and it would sound totally normal and rational – has he spoken to you about me? Has he spoken to you about the Inquisition? Has he spoken to you about the things Corypheus is doing to the world, or what the after-effects of the Breach have done to the Veil? Has he spoken to you about where we go from here? There are so many directions I could go. So many perfectly valid conversations I could have, all while pretending that I wasn’t even thinking about my intended question.

Except, I’m too damn curious for my own good.

I groaned. “About… about Nathan.”

Alex pulled back at that, as my answer was clearly not at all what he’d expected. “Uh, no. He hasn’t. _Why?”_

“Oh, I don’t know,” I sighed airily. “Maybe because of that fourteen-year-old festering emotional wound you have and the fact that neither of you want to even try talking about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Oh my god… oh my actual fucking _god…_

Why? Why all the deep seated emotional issues? Why the constant refusal to fix their goddamn problems? Why are all my characters like this? Why do I keep doing this to myself?

Note to self; please make a well adjusted normal boring RPG protagonist, on the off-chance you end up having the world’s most realistic delusion about their adventures. That would be so much easier to handle. Who cares about boring. Interesting isn’t worth the agony.

 _“Sure_ there’s not,” I groaned with an unmistakable air of sarcasm and then some, just so he knew how tedious I thought this whole thing was. “Are you like this with all your siblings, or just the one?”

He snorted at that. “You sound like my sister.”

“Sounds like your sister is the only sane person in your family.”

“She thinks so too.”

Oh man. I like her already. Any chance _she_ can be my protagonist instead? Maybe I’ll start another playthrough with her when I get out of here. Maybe I’ll start a new playthrough for Nathan, too. Maybe I’ll do one for all the Trevelyans.

Which reminds me.

“You have two brothers, right?”

Alex stiffened. “…yes?”

“Who’s the other one?”

“The _other_ one?”

I rolled my eyes. “The one who isn’t Nathan, dummy. Who is he? What’s his name?”

He exhaled softly. “William.”

I nodded slowly. William Trevelyan. What a boring, normal thing to be called. She says, like _Nathan_ and _Alexander_ and _Violet_ are all terribly whacky, out-there, utterly unique and never-previously-heard-of names.

Alexander, I’ll take the blame for. It was the first thing that popped into my head when I found myself inches away from finally completing my character and wanting nothing more than to start the game. It was the first adequately human name that wasn’t Maxwell so that’s what I went with. But the others? That’s not my fault.

Unless it is. Because this is _my_ delusion, so logically, everything here comes from _my_ brain.

Anxiously, I glanced up at Alex, still not sure if I was quite ready to tell him that.

I am _so_ not ready to tell him that. Besides, why does he need to know? He doesn’t. He absolutely does not need to know that.

“William, huh? What’s he like?”

Alex shrugged. “He’s the dutiful eldest son.”

Wow. That’s… vague.

“What, do you not get along with him, either?”

“It’s not that we don’t get along,” Alex said, choosing his words carefully. “It’s that he’s seven years older than I am and I haven’t lived at home since I was ten. We don’t, ah, we don’t really _have_ a relationship.”

Oh.

Well.

I guess- I guess that’s… _okay?_ Maybe?

Oh my god. Weird sibling relationships, if they exist at all, thoroughly pious parents, a great-aunt who loves to cause drama and fifty-nine cousins – one of which is essentially the _Buzzfeed_ of Thedas. Is it weird that part of me kind of _needs_ to witness a Trevelyan family reunion?

I need to change the subject. I need to change it _now._

“Speaking of relationships…” I began slyly, nudging him a little with my elbow. _“Matthias,_ huh?”

His breath abruptly caught in his throat and he immediately launched into a violent coughing fit at my question, gripping the balustrade for support as he almost lurched right over it.

“Um, _what?”_ he managed to choke out when he finally recovered.

 _“He’s_ why you’re so touchy about liking Josephine, right?” I pressed. “Because? You know? The Conclave? Hashtag too soon?”

“…hashtag?”

I huffed loudly and folded my arms. “Alex. Come on. You were totally boyfriends.”

He stared at me, anxiously chewing his lip and clearly wanting nothing more than to be literally _anywhere_ other than here, having _any_ other possible conversation with _anyone else._ I just waited, knowing I shouldn’t be so light hearted about the whole thing, but too focused on impatiently waiting for his admission to care. At least not enough to apologise and tone it down a little.

He groaned. “Yes- _no!_ It wasn’t _like_ that.”

“…were you lovers?”

“I’m not sure that’s-”

“Did you fraternise?”

 _“Fraternise_ isn’t the word I’d-”

“Was there kissing?”

“That’s not-”

“How long were you together?”

“I don’t-”

“You loved him, though. Right?”

Alex gritted his teeth and turned away. “I am going to _kill_ Nathan.”

“You know I would’ve worked it out without his help,” I pointed out. “You’re not exactly the most _subtle_ person around.”

“I’m a _mage,_ the _Inquisitor,_ and the _Herald of Andraste,”_ he reminded me. “Subtlety isn’t really part of the job description.”

I laughed, too caught up in my own imaginings of the whole situation. “Oh, I can already see it. You and him, chasing each other around the tower, hiding from templars, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears…”

Alex flushed a bright scarlet at that.

He actually _flushed_ with _embarrassment._

“You’re blowing it way out of proportion,” he argued feebly, trying in vain to hide the bright pink colouring his cheeks.

Oh, this is _too cute._

“Did you sneak off to hide in closets, so people wouldn’t catch you making out?”

 _“Emilia…”_ he groaned, because yes, he still calls me that despite knowing it’s not my name, though I think it’s more of a force of habit than anything else. “For the love of the Maker and holy Andraste, stop. _Please.”_

His plea came way, _way_ too late, as I was already lost in a fantasy of gay mage boyfriends and nothing was going to pull me out.

“Guess that makes you bisexual, then?”

His brow creased at my observation. “I don’t know what that means?”

“You swing both ways.”

“…swing? What swing?”

I smacked my palm to my forehead in exasperation. “Oh for- _you fancy men and women.”_

Thankfully, he understood that. “Is this news to you?”

I opened my mouth to say that it was, kind of, but then I realised that in Dragon Age, at least, the player character is pretty much always bisexual. Like, gay and straight romances are always open to you. You’re sort of bisexual by default. Having a specific sexual orientation beyond that is kind of up to you and how much you care about character building.

And let me tell you, if this experience has done nothing else, it’s taught me the value of caring about character building. I’m not going to be able to help it now. Everything I do will be dictated by things like _‘would they really do that though’_ and _‘is this actually in-character or is it just what I want’_ and _‘what’s more interesting for them at this point’._

Not that it matters anyway because apparently, he just is bisexual anyway.

“No,” I murmured after a pause. “Not really. I just- I’d never given it any thought before.”

He didn’t reply to that. I don’t suppose I expected him to. So instead, I just pressed on.

“So, tell me. How did you meet? Was it love at first sight?”

Alex, bizarrely, let out a shout of laughter that completely took my aback. It was quite possibly the absolute _last_ thing I’d expected from him.

 _“Love at first sight?”_ he repeated blandly. “Maker, _no._ We _hated_ each other.”

Somehow, I’m not even surprised to hear him say that.

I groaned. _“Seriously?_ Why are all your relationships like this?”

“A mystery for the ages, to be sure,” he quipped back at me. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. He’s long gone.”

And just like that, he managed to bring down the entire mood. Which I guess was fair, really. Considering everything.

“What was he like?” I asked, deciding right then and there that this was the most sensitive, gentle question I could ask.

Have I mentioned that I have no read of social situations, and therefore zero tact?

Yeah.

That’s a thing with me.

In case it wasn’t already immediately obvious.

Alex didn’t meet my eye. “He was an ass.”

“Perfect for you, then.”

“Hilarious,” he deadpanned.

Because of course he would. Because of course he defaults to sarcasm. When has sarcasm ever failed? Good old sarcasm can deflect potentially emotionally traumatic conversations. Sarcasm will save everyone.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m not surprised. Who’s surprised?

_Too soon._

I sighed. “It’s okay to fall in love with someone else, you know. It’s okay to move on.”

Alex chewed his lip anxiously and didn’t reply.

I sighed and rolled my shoulders back. “Just something for you to ponder while you’re gallivanting around the wilderness.”

“While _we’re_ gallivanting around the wilderness, you mean,” he quickly corrected.

I took a double take. “What? I- I’m sorry, but _what?”_

He looked me dead in the eye, never wavering.

“I’m heading to Crestwood with Hawke,” he said, no trace of humour in his tone. “And you’re coming with me.”

I blinked. “Uh… _why?_ I mean, I’m not going to say I’m not flattered, but I can barely swing a sword-”

“You _can_ swing a sword,” he cut across me. “No one’s saying you’re an expert swordsman, but you’re miles better than what you were in Haven. I want you with me.”

“I am _so_ not good enough to be in your inner circle,” I protested weakly.

“I want you with me,” he repeated plainly.

 _“Please_ tell me you’re not trying to make me into some mystical seer who predicts battles for you,” I groaned. “Alex, we _talked_ about this. You know I can’t-”

“I know. No one’s saying that,” he said.

“The others might find out. And they might not agree with you when they do.”

“I’ll make the others play nice,” he assured me. “Come on. It’ll be good for you.”

I groaned and threw my hands up into the air. “You made your mind up about this a long time ago, didn’t you?”

He just nodded earnestly.

…great.

I am _so_ screwed.


	26. God Crumbles Up The Old Moon Into Stars

Turns out, Alex wasn’t joking when he talked about dragging me out of Skyhold with him.

And it sucked.

Oh my god, it sucked so much.

Because Crestwood was what could politely be referred to as a cesspit of mud, rain, demons, and a whole lot of corpses. And honestly, I don’t know what else I expected, beyond the fact that I was now seeing Alex fight with a relative frequency now and _nothing_ has terrified me more.

Oh, but Emily, it’s fine. He’s on your side. It’s fine. Why are you scared?

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just something about how he calmly raises his hand and clenches his fist and then a bunch of corpses promptly explode into flames. Maybe it’s something about how the air shimmers around me with that all too familiar blueish-green magic signalling a barrier going up every few minutes. Maybe it had something to do with how the ground would crack and rocks would break apart where he was standing. Maybe it’s something about the storm clouds that were already covering the sky as far as the eye can see swirl dangerously overhead, and the unmistakable charge of electricity in the air that reminds me too much of what happened in Haven.

And that’s just Alex. Meanwhile, there’s Hawke.

Garrett Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.

Garrett Hawke, who is in this game.

Garrett Hawke, who is tall and way too muscular for a mage and speaks with a gruff Fereldan accent and bested the Arishok in single combat and is dating the video game love of my actual life and still _sounds exactly like Nicholas Boulton._ Hawke, who is an absurdly powerful mage in his own right, _without_ the aid of a magic-amplifying, Veil-ripping, magical scar of bright green light slashed across his left palm.

Have I mentioned that mages are _fucking terrifying_ today?

Because they are.

Like, not even kidding. Every time either one of them tore down a corpse, all I could do was imagine was just how easily they’d be able to do exactly the same to me. And then I’d be dead. I’d be a bloody, dismembered pile of flesh and organs splattered across the ground so quickly I wouldn’t even realise just how utterly dead I was. I would be dead, a million times over before I even knew what the hell just happened.

Because what the hell is a sword going to do against that? What the hell is _any_ mundane weapon _possibly_ going to do against that?

I used to think that in a fight between my Warden, my Hawke, and my Inquisitor, my Warden would win. I used to think that, hands down. Not even a competition. Because the Warden is a badass. Because the Warden almost singlehandedly raised an army and took out an Archdemon – a _real_ one – stopped a civil war, and generally saved the world. He was the world’s best rogue, and nothing could stop him.

Oh, what a sweet summer child pre-Dragon-Age-delusion Emily was.

I’m still very firmly of the opinion that my Warden is a total badass. He has to be. But he’d be totally dead in that situation, no question about it.

Because that’s the thing about mages. Loads of fun to play. Fucking terrifying to watch in real life.

And it was just the three of us. Alexander had politely ordered everyone else to stay in the village, and do whatever they could to help protect the people there, while the three of us headed out to track down Stroud. There had been protests. A lot of them had been mine. He’d quietly and calmly shut down every single one.

Because _you’re fine, Emilia,_ and _this is why we’ve been training, remember,_ and _isn’t just so nice to be outside Skyhold,_ and _they’re just undead,_ and _don’t be so squeamish,_ and finally, his absolute favourite argument of the mix; _this is fun._

Seriously, if I had a dollar for every time he managed to say those exact words just in the past twenty-four hours, I’d have… twenty dollars. Probably.

Definitely.

Which doesn’t _sound_ like a lot, but _you_ try listening to someone say _this is fun_ that many times as you stab your way through a seemingly never-ending wave of recently reanimated, shambling corpses.

He’s a lunatic.

Alexander Trevelyan is a goddamn _lunatic,_ and Garrett Hawke _isn’t any better._

“Oh, _this_ takes me back,” the Champion commented dryly as he casually snapped his fingers, watching on impassively as a charging corpse slowed, flames eating the rotting flesh from the inside-out until it disintegrated into a pile of ash before his feet. “Add a few blood mages, a couple crazy templars, and you’ve basically got Kirkwall.”

“Your city is a shitsty,” I grunted as I staggered, slashing blindly at an approaching corpse.

Garrett just laughed a little wistfully, like just talking about it, even in such an unfavourable light, was making him miss it. “Yeah… it really is.”

I suppose he hasn’t been home in a while. And the last time he did see it, it was a little, uh, _blown up._

You know. Thanks to the actual worst fictional character in anything, ever, who somehow inexplicably manages to have a fandom regardless of the fact that he’s _shit._

(Because _oh,_ he likes _cats_ and he used to be _funny_ so it’s fucking _fine_ for him to be an emotionally abusive mass murdering _terrorist.)_

(He is.)

(He _is,_ though.)

 _God,_ I hate Anders. I hate Anders _so much._

Am I even _allowed_ to be pro-mage and this intensely anti-Anders at the same time?

No?

Too bad. I am.

Can you _imagine_ if I’d ended up in Dragon Age II, and not Inquisition? I think I might’ve died.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not thinking about this. It’s not a problem. It’s in the past. Four whole years in the past at this point. Let it go already. Everyone in Thedas has. Kind of. Sort of. Mostly. A bit. I mean, I guess the looming threat of Corypheus helps.

Anyway. Here we are. Me. Alex. Garrett. In Crestwood. What a fun turn of events this is.

Yeah. Just me and my guys. Me and my Dragon Age guys, doing Dragon Age stuff. Killing corpses, kicking ass and taking names. All we’re missing is my canon Warden. And since my canon Warden is a tired, posttraumatic-stress-suffering, couple-years-off-thirty-year-old ex-noble father-of-the-reincarnated-soul-of-the-very-same-ancient-draconic-god-he-made-a-point-of-murdering-ten-years-ago with a highly questionable taste in women, maybe I should count my blessings he’s not around.

None of my player characters can ever catch a break, it seems.

Which would adequately explain how they all manage to be _goddamn lunatics._

Meanwhile, I hung out in the back, gripping my sword tighter than I’d ever thought I was able, staggering around in the muck and the shit and the rain, stabbing blindly at just about anything that came too close.

The fact that I haven’t died yet never ceases to amaze me. But that’s probably in no small part thanks to Alex very carefully but surreptitiously making sure to explode anything headed my way that he wasn’t absolutely sure I would be able to handle.

More than once, I’d thrown him an appreciative glance, not that he noticed. He was a little busy, after all.

Oh, god.

Why am I here? Why did I let him drag me kicking and screaming out of Skyhold?

By the time the last corpse was cut down, earning us something of a brief reprieve, I was doubled over, gasping desperately for air and silently cursing Alexander Trevelyan to the fiery circles of hell.

I felt an elbow nudge my shoulder.

“See?” Alexander gasped in between small fits of laughter. “Isn’t this fun? Aren’t you so glad you come out here?”

“I… _hate…_ everything about… you… right now,” I wheezed back in his direction. “And don’t- …don’t pretend… this is for… _fun._ There’s an ulterior motive… I _know_ it. I’m… on to you.”

He had to concede that. It’d been pretty obvious from the start, after all.

But instead, he shrugged. “Best way to practice is to be out in the field.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh… my god. _Don’t-_ …don’t pretend that’s why you dragged me out here. I’m _not…_ predicting shit for you.”

“I’m not _asking_ you to,” he told me, again, for the millionth time.

I wish I could believe that.

“Hate to interrupt,” Garrett called out in a bizarrely calm voice – why am I even surprised, he’s somehow managed to be _more_ dry and sarcastic than Alex – as he gestured in a direction that I _think_ was north. “But _I’d_ like to find Stroud before the Wardens do.”

Almost immediately, Alex was in all-business mode. “Agreed. Think he’ll know what’s going on here?”

Garrett _glowered_ slightly at the question. “He’d _better.”_

I blinked in surprise as both of the men began to head off, not quite sure what to make of the interaction.

Did my unquestionably purple Hawke turn into a red Hawke for a second there? Did that actually just happen?

But… I suppose I can’t exactly blame him. Dude’s been through a lot in the last ten years, and it only ever seems to get worse. Maybe I’d be a little short in his place too.

“How very Fenris-y of you,” I grunted to no one in particular.

Something I immediately regretted doing, as Garrett apparently has the world’s most acute sense of hearing, ever, and quickly stopped dead in his tracks, turning heel to look at me incredulously.

“You know Fenris?” he asked me, cocking his head slightly in confusion.

I coughed. “I- uh… no. We’ve never met. I’ve just- um… I-”

Uh…

 _Uh…_ um, he- I… well it’s…

Oh my god I am so the absolute _worst_ at quick improvised lies.

“She’s read _Tale of the Champion_ a few too many times,” Alex cut across my stumbling smoothly, without hesitation. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you earlier.”

 _Damn_ he’s such a better liar than me. What the actual hell.

Why does that surprise me?

Oh shock, the studious, intelligent, quick-witted mage can think on his feet faster than awkward, can-barely-navigate-a-conversation-without-wanting-to-die little old me. Who saw this coming? No one saw this coming.

I am so bad at everything forever and have to rely on other people to save me constantly, the end.

Garrett barked out a shout of laughter. “Oh _yeah._ Right. Sorry. That didn’t even occur to me. For one _glorious_ moment there, I forgot that book even existed.”

“What’s he like?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “Fenris, I mean?”

Damn it, Emily.

Even _Alex_ was looking at me like I was completely insane. I could see it written all over his expression – _for the love of the Maker and holy Andraste, Emilia, just drop the subject._

Garrett arched an eyebrow at me. “That blunt, huh? Usually there’s a little more awkward small talk before people ask me for sordid details regarding my sex life.”

Oh my god, that is so _not_ what I was asking.

“I- I just… I didn’t mean… I only wanted to know if he’s… um, you know… like that? In real life?”

A playful smile was playing on Garrett’s lips now. “Like _that?_ You mean if he’s a broody elf covered in spikes and lyrium tattoos?”

“I- I guess so?”

The smile only widened.

He’s having way too much fun with this.

“Yes,” he told me, before turning around and heading off again.

His answer was so short and so blunt it totally threw me. It was all I could do to just stand there, rooted to the spot, staring absently after Garrett’s retreating back, not knowing what else to do. Barely even knowing how to breathe.

Beside me, Alexander breathed an audible sigh of relief, before turning on his heels to face me.

“Are you at all capable of going more than ten minutes without almost compromising yourself?” he asked once he was certain we were out of earshot.

I folded my arms. “Get off your high horse. I went _months_ without you knowing.”

His expression did not change. “I knew something was going on with you from literally the moment I first _met_ you.”

“You did _not,”_ I argued. “I am a master of stealth and spying and lying and you’re just trying to make me feel bad.”

“You tried to tell me that you knew my name from a _lucky guess,”_ he reminded me bluntly.

He has me there.

“I was _stressed_ at the time, alright?”

“Noted,” he said calmly, before moving to go after Garrett. “You’re not allowed to do any of the talking from now on.”

“I _hate_ you sometimes,” I grumbled as I followed suit.

“Nothing’s stopping you from leaving.”

 _“Everything_ is stopping me from leaving, Alexander,” I bit back. “You included.”

“I still don’t understand why you won’t let me ask Solas about it,” he sighed.

 _“No!”_ I screeched, grabbing at his arm and pulling him back. “No! _No._ Nope. Never ever. Do not _ever_ mention me to Solas, okay?”

“Any specific reason why?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. May I ask _why?”_

He’s Fen’Harel.

He killed Flemeth.

He gave Corypheus the orb.

You’re going to die in two years’ time and I’m pretty sure he’s the reason why.

Ugh, _Trespasser._ It keeps creeping up on me like that. I can go weeks without ever thinking about it and then it’ll just pop back up in my conscious awareness and all I can do about it is sit there and grit my teeth and pretend I don’t suddenly want to burst into tears because I absolutely cannot mentally handle the prospect of Alex – dry, sarcastic Alex who undoubtedly has his heart in the right place and wants to do the right thing by everyone and fix problems and generally is utterly selfless and unfailingly helpful _Alexander Trevelyan_ – dying. I can’t deal with the idea that he’ll be _that_ young and die _that_ painfully.

“He- …uh, apostate!” I all but shouted. “Yeah. He’s a _shady ass apostate._ You can’t trust people like that.”

“You _do_ realise that _all_ mages are technically apostates at this point, right? Me included?”

“You know what I mean. He’s a _real_ apostate. Always has been. He was never part of the Circle.”

“Neither was Hawke.”

“Hawke’s different.”

_“Right.”_

I rolled my eyes dramatically and squared my shoulders. “Look, I’d tell you. I’d _love_ to tell you. But it’s, you know, it’s complicated. Spoilers, and whatever. Can’t risk it.”

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “You have _no_ idea how frustrating it is to be friends with someone who knows the future and refuses to tell you.”

“Sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine. I get it. How about we focus on the task at hand?”

Slowly, tiredly, I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Good plan.”

The instant I agreed, he was off, moving on ahead and clearly expecting me to keep up of my own accord. With a heavy sigh, I tried to do exactly that.

Yeah. This is fun. Sure. So much fun.

I’m never leaving Skyhold again.


	27. Solitude Can Quickly Destroy Reason

There was a high dragon nesting in the hills around Crestwood.

Her presence shouldn’t have surprised me. I’ve fought and killed her something like ten times in the game, like I do with all the dragons in Inquisition because I love the dragon fights and they make me feel like a total badass which is not a feeling I get to experience often, so sue me. I know exactly where all the dragons are located, so seeing her perched precariously atop that stone ruin _really_ shouldn’t have been the shocking sight it was. Hearing her roar and screech so loud the ground may as well have shaken with the sheer force of the noise shouldn’t have chilled me right to the bone. Watching her prowl around her territory, flaring her wings and dive-bombing herds of wild druffalo, unleashing a furious tempest from her jaws that roasted anything caught in its path alive shouldn’t have been… I don’t know. It shouldn’t have been surprising. But it shouldn’t have felt so agonisingly _normal_ after just a few minutes, either.

Because that’s what I do in Crestwood. I park my butt on a hill and I aimlessly watch dragons by myself because, I don’t know, maybe being this close to a dragon is the only way in Thedas to make sure people don’t bother you.

Anxiously, I looked down at my hands – rough hands, covered in scabs and scars and callouses now. They used to be soft and smooth. They used to fly over a keyboard, not wield a hand-and-a-half grip longsword. And the muscles that have built up over my wiry frame, they didn’t used to be there, either. Poor, unreliable diet and strenuous physical exercise just does that, I guess. Still. It’s weird that I’m fitter than I’ve ever been and it’s for all the wrong reasons.

Oh my god.

I’m sitting on a hill in _Thedas_ watching a goddamn _dragon_ flying around and the thing that’s overtaken my mind is an _existential crisis._

Priorities, Emily.

It’s weird how magic simultaneously became so much scarier and more dangerous to me while simultaneously becoming so intensely mundane. It doesn’t impress me half as much anymore, and yet I’m still keenly aware of just how easily it could kill me at any second.

Not that I would stay dead, if the mystical respawn thing has anything to say about it.

The image of the tip of a bloody sword protruding from my own chest flashed through my mind at the thought, sending a shiver up my spine.

Yeah. So not keen on doing that again. Like, _ever._

Desperate to think of something, _anything,_ else, I turned my mind to the oddly tranquil sunlit grassy plains that made up Crestwood’s surrounding area. It’s odd, how quickly the weather perked up after Alex tore his way through the caves and sealed the rift. It’s been three days now, and it hadn’t rained once. Quite a stark change from the never ceasing downpour that had characterised this place beforehand.

And _no,_ I _didn’t_ go down into the caves. There had been attempts to convince me, but I’d put my foot down. Dragging me out here was enough. I’m not trudging my way through corpse-ridden demon caves. That’s where I draw the line.

But it had been so bizarrely quiet ever since. Suddenly, I could kind of understand why people would want to live here. Kind of. Even though being out here, it just made me realise how way out my depth I am. How way out of my depth I _still_ am, despite all my best attempts to improve.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I have _no idea._ I don’t even know what’s real anymore. Because, this? This whole thing? The _Dragon Age_ delusion I can’t escape no matter what I try? It feels real. It’s starting to feel more real than _real_ life ever did. And the thought of that _terrifies_ me. Because what if I can’t get back? What if I have to stay here and live out my life in this world? What if I’ve kissed my reality goodbye forever and there is no going back? What if that was always the case? Would I even _care?_

I have a _friend_ here. A real one. Someone I care about and genuinely seems to care about me in return. I never got that back home. I never _felt_ like I got that, anyway. Too quiet and awkward and so painfully aware of everything I do and yet unable to stop myself. For the first time in my life, I’ve met someone who I can be that around and he doesn’t even _care._ He just lets me be whoever I am, lets me be awkward and weird and incoherent at times and weirdly stubborn about certain things while super flexible about others and he just lets it all slide like it’s totally normal. He sees me when I’m too tired to keep up a façade of being totally normal and still wants to spend time with me. Not once have I ever felt like he’s judged me on that front. For the first time in my life, I haven’t felt lonely.

Best friend I’ve ever had, and he’s a fucking _figment of my own imagination._

God _dammit,_ why is that my life?

I’m so attached to this delusion and the people in it and I’m not sure if I even _want_ to go back anymore. Because what does real life have?

Video games. The internet. Electricity. Showers. Plumbing. Flush toilets. Proper food. Less demons, dragons, darkspawn, magic, and the constant risk of death.

But no friends.

No Alexander Cassius Aloysius Trevelyan.

And you know what? Thedas is worth enduring, because he’s worth staying for.

Footsteps approached me from behind, and I didn’t look back. There was no point. They were slow, cautious, and there was no clanking of plate armour, no sound of swords being drawn. I know exactly who that is.

“You’ve not caught me at a good time,” I said with a small sigh.

Alex didn’t seem to pay me any mind, quietly settling down next to me without any outward fuss. “You’ve caught me at worse.”

Fair point.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked quietly, as we both stared directly ahead, right at the dragon that was still happily rampaging in the distance.

Anxiously, I glanced over at him, my mouth running dry as I struggled to work out what to say.

You’re my best friend.

You’re my best and only goddamn friend and I will endure this hell forever just so I can keep clinging to that.

You know. Because I’m sad and lonely and just that desperate, apparently.

“Do you think about home much?” I asked, my voice quiet and strangled. “Where you came from, before you ended up here?”

He blinked in surprise. “Ostwick? Not so much anymore.”

I hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“That bothers you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“More than it should,” I conceded.

Almost immediately, I felt his arm wrap around me and pull me close, in what I assumed was supposed to be a show of friendship and solidarity. I shifted slightly, a little uncomfortable at his touch but also kind of revelling in it at the same time. Don’t ask me how that works. I don’t know. It just makes me feel horrendously awkward when it happens, but it’s only when it does happen I realise just how starved of genuine affection I am.

In case it wasn’t already apparent just how sad and utterly pathetic I am.

“We’ll get you back,” he assured me gently. “One way or another.”

I let out a long, tired exhale and gently pulled myself out of his grip, before laying down in the long grass. “I believe you.”

“You don’t sound like it.”

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, not really knowing what to say, or how to explain myself. At least, not in a way I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s incredibly smart and capable and well educated, but the fact is, he’s a product of his environment and I’m not sure he’ll be able to grasp any of what I’m actually feeling.

I… should give him more credit than that. After all, he’s been _remarkably_ okay with everything so far.

“I just…” I began awkwardly, trying to remember how to breathe the whole time I spoke, “is it crazy for me to not really _want_ to go back anymore?”

Does that even make _sense?_

Alex laughed. “How bad is it there for _this_ to be preferable?”

I chuckled – but it was breathless, uneasy. “It’s not bad. It’s just… I don’t know. Different. But sometimes you just want to escape, you know? Not exist in where you are anymore. Be someone else, some _where_ else. I guess… I just remembered the reality that’s waiting for me.”

“And now you don’t want to go back,” he summed up quietly.

One more awkward, breathless chuckle escaped me. “It’s insane, right?”

“No, it isn’t.”

His tone was so blunt and so matter-of-fact that it completely threw me. For so long, there was silence between us, as I couldn’t work out how to reply and he seemed to have nothing else to say.

And then, _finally;_

“Maybe that’s it.”

“What’s it?” I whispered, my voice small and meek and utterly pathetic in every way something can be. “What are you talking about?”

“Emilia, has it ever occurred to you that maybe the reason you can’t get back is because you don’t _want_ to?” he asked. “That maybe the only thing keeping you here is yourself?”

I- …what?

That- that _can’t_ be right. That’s crazy and stupid and _impossible_ and doesn’t make any sense.

“B-but I- …I wanted to before!” I spluttered uselessly. “This is all new stuff! It didn’t apply before.”

“Didn’t it?” he contradicted quietly. “Because none of it _sounds_ new.”

“What do you mean?”

Slowly, carefully, he eased himself back, so he was laying in the grass next to me.

“The world is like this because it’s meant to be this way,” he murmured, while staring idly up at the clear blue of the sky. “Bad things happen because they’re supposed to. You remember when you said that to me?”

“I’ve said a lot of stupid things to you.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” he told me flatly. “It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now. You want to be somewhere where you know what’s going on, where you know you _mean_ something. You want to know that things aren’t just random, that _someone_ has it under control. You want things to be the way they are because they’re _supposed_ to be. You want there to be a reason for everything. You told me this was a story to you, something you’d heard before. I’m guessing back where you come from, you don’t have that security. Is it really any _wonder_ you’re not sure about going back?”

I blinked. I blinked in shock at him and found myself completely at a loss for words.

“You’re not the first to use stories as an escape,” he added quietly. “And you definitely won’t be the last.”

Oh… my god.

Oh my god, that makes _so much sense._

I _hate_ how much sense that makes.

“So, you think I’ve screwed myself over?” I managed to choke out after what felt like an eternity and a half.

Alex closed his eyes and let out a huge sigh. “I think you’re clinging desperately to something you know you can’t have. And I think the only way out of this is to let go.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t say anything at all. There wasn’t really anything I _could_ say.

And then;

“You’re so…” I began after what felt like forever but was probably just a few seconds, only to immediately trail off into silence.

“So…?” he prompted, looking at me with an expression of undeniable curiosity.

“Easy-going,” I mumbled. “Like, come _on._ How are you so fine with everything I’ve told you? _I know the future, but I can’t tell you._ Alright. _I’m from a completely different world._ Okay. _Your life is a story to me._ Cool. Does _anything_ bother you? I could probably tell you about the time I straight up _died_ and you wouldn’t bat an eyelash.”

Instant regret as he arched an eyebrow curiously at me. “You died?”

I bit my lip and looked away. “I’m… about eighty percent sure I died, yes.”

He just looked at me like I was completely insane.

“I got better,” I insisted meekly.

“Evidently.”

“See? _That’s_ what I’m talking about! How are you so _chill?”_

“Emilia, between surviving the Conclave explosion, the physical trip through the Fade, the subsequent memory loss, the thing on my hand, the hole in the sky, the spirit who made himself into a boy, the crazy Tevinter cult bent on ruling the world, the ancient darkspawn magister trying to kill me, and the _Archdemon,_ you’re honestly the _least_ weird thing to happen to me this past year.”

“I _died,_ though!” I all but screamed, bolting upright once again. “I was impaled and I _died_ and then I just _came back_ for no _goddamn reason,_ and everyone was acting like it never happened and I thought I was going _insane-”_

“Are you okay?”

I stopped dead, twisting around to face him, eyes wide with shock. He was watching me with genuine concern, worry written all over his face. I swallowed uncomfortably, not wanting him to worry. Not wanting him to bother with me and all my idiot problems that I’ve unceremoniously shoved onto him.

Just like I did with my parents. And my sister. And everyone who’s ever meant anything to me.

 _Please don’t bother with me,_ I wanted to tell him. _Please don’t waste your time caring._

“I…” I began, my brain scrambling to think of something acceptable to say as tears sprang into my eyes before I could stop them. “I- I don’t… know. I don’t know.”

Idiot. Stupid, _stupid_ idiot. What does that even mean?

“Hey,” he called gently, carefully propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset.”

“Why do you care?” I snarled through gritted teeth.

He rolled his eyes slightly. “Because you’re my friend.”

“You’ve got loads of friends.”

“I really don’t,” he said quietly. “And does that even matter, anyway? _You’re_ the one who came after me and calmed me down when I tried to run. _You’re_ the one who bothered to hear me out about finding Nathan. _You’re_ the one who tracked me down in the middle of a blizzard and dragged me back to camp. You keep helping me. So let me help _you.”_

Oh god.

Oh, _god._

I don’t deserve you.

I’ll never deserve you.

Once again, he reached out, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. And this time, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t fight it. For the first time in a long time, despite the fact that I was stuck in a delusion, despite the fact that a dragon was prowling around some ruins on the horizon, I felt _safe._

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Trust me on that. It’s going to be okay.”


	28. With Sad Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. So. This is late. Sorry. I'm not real happy with this chapter but depression happened and continues to happen and I needed to post something so this got bashed out and uh... yeah. Thanks for sticking with me guys.

Alex had a point. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he had a _really_ good point. Like, I kind of _hated_ how good a point it was, and how much sense it made.

 _I think you’re clinging desperately to something you know you can’t have._ _And I think the only way out of this is to let go._

I exhaled loudly, trying to focus on something, _anything_ that wasn’t those words, what they meant, or even who said them. Because if I think about Alex, I’ll have to think about the fact that I have spent a good twenty minutes of my life – delusion or no – crying pointlessly into his chest like a fucking idiot. Not to mention, if I think about Alex, if I think about what a good friend he is and just how much he’s starting to mean to me, if I give him any more than the absolute barest of considerations, I’ll have to face the stark reality that is his impending death. Again. Because the reality that is Trespasser just. Won’t. Leave. Me. _Alone._

_I don’t want to die._

Even if I manage to claw my way back to real life somehow, even if I suddenly wake up to find this has all been nothing more than an elaborate fever dream, even if everything I’m experiencing, everything that I’ve _been_ experiencing for months now turns out to just be a symptom of my overactive imagination and nothing else, I’m never going to be able to play through that again. I’m never going to be able to drag myself through that one cutscene without turning into a crying wreck. Because he’s real and he’s my friend and he thinks he’s safe but he’s not. He never will be. That… that _thing…_ it’ll eat away at him from the inside out until there’s nothing left and there is _nothing_ I can do about it.

Involuntarily, my eyes flicked down to Alex’s left hand, and the pulsing green light that emanated from it, even now, even through his gloves. It… looks worse than before. I don’t know if that’s because it _is_ worse, or if that’s just because I haven’t noticed it until now.

My best friend has a terminal case of fantasy magic cancer and he _doesn’t know_ and I can’t be the one to break it to him. I _can’t._

Partly because the potential of a universe eating paradox.

Mostly because holy shit, _how_ are you even supposed to _start_ that conversation?

_I don’t want to die._

What if I have to hear him say that here? What if he has that breakdown right in front of me? What if I’m there to witness that? I don’t have the mental or emotional fortitude to survive that. I don’t even have the ability to survive that without bursting into tears when it’s just a _cutscene_ in a stupid _video game._

He’s going to die; it’s going to kill him and I can’t stop it, there’s nothing I can do, I just have to sit there and watch on as it destroys him and it is _all Solas’ fault._

And I can’t be the one to tell him.

So I just sat there and I waited and I watched his hand with suspicious eyes, like somehow it wasn’t actually part of his body and I expected it to leap out and attack me at any moment.

Except it didn’t.

Because it was just his left hand.

I’d almost managed to convince myself I was going crazy and blowing it way out of proportion when the Anchor suddenly flared brighter, causing Alex’s left hand to immediately spasm. I pulled back in fear as Alex grunted, reaching around and gripping his left wrist like that was supposed to achieve anything.

“Alex?” I called frantically as he curled in on himself, hissing quietly in pain. “Alex, are you okay? _Alex?”_

“I’m fine,” he grunted. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Alex-”

“Give me a second,” he insisted, waving me off.

I very reluctantly pulled back, eyeing the Anchor warily again. Of course it’d start freaking out now, just when I’m having that particular thought process. It’s like it can read my mind.

And that… is way too scary to think about.

After a moment of struggling, Alex seemed to relax, collapsing back on the grass, his chest heaving as sweat beaded along his hairline.

“Ah… hah… see? Fine. I’m… absolutely fine,” he rasped in my direction.

“That thing is going to kill you.”

Shit.

I didn’t just say that.

Did I actually just _say that?_

“I know… it looks bad,” he responded, easing himself back up into a sitting position. “But it… it’s just reacting… to the rifts… in the area. That’s… all.”

My eyes narrowed. “It does that?”

He nodded, still breathing ragged, exhausted breaths. “All… the time.”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, before I could stop myself.

You know, it suddenly occurs to me that I sure do blaspheme a lot for someone who calls herself a half-arsed Christian. Then again, _half-arsed._ It’s in the name.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I don’t know why I’m thinking about this. I don’t know why I’m thinking about anything. This is all stupid and totally insane and I’m going to give it any thought anymore. I can’t. I don’t want to. So, I won’t. Thinking just gives me a headache and then I get so absorbed in something I don’t even want to consider, really, and everything is terrible forever.

Like that makes a difference.

Everything already _is_ terrible forever. Only question is whether or not I bother to pay attention to it.

I’m so tired. I’m tired of this, of _everything._ I’m exhausted and I don’t want to do anything anymore. Can I just sit here, in this grass, and sleep forever? Is that an option?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I mumbled after what felt like way too long.

Please be okay.

Please don’t let it get too bad just yet.

Please stick around a little while longer.

Please.

For me.

Alex closed his eyes and let out a long, quiet exhale, like he was trying to collect himself before answering.

“I’ve been worse.”

That… was not a comforting answer. But then, I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know what else I expected him to say. Not like he’s ever freely admitted to not being okay unless I’ve pushed and shoved and poked and prodded him until he didn’t have a choice.

“You’re still worried.”

It wasn’t a question.

I rolled my shoulders back and tried to calm myself, even as I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes, despite my efforts. “It’s nothing.”

Slowly, he sat up a little, propping himself up on his elbows and arching an eyebrow at me. “What is it?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Emilia.”

I want to tell him. I want to tell him so badly. I want to _scream_ at him. I want to yell and scream and shake my fist at the sky and curse all the gods I know of, fictional and otherwise, for doing this to me.

“I can’t talk about it,” I insisted. “It’s just one of those things.”

Why is this happening to me? Why did this have to happen to me _now?_

It always comes back to that.

I’m starting to think it always will.

Oh man. I am so all over the place today. I don’t even know.

I can’t handle this. I can’t handle any of this.

I can’t do this. I can’t take it anymore.

“This is driving me insane,” I murmured.

“What is?”

“The Anchor!” I pretty much screeched, gesturing wildly at his hand. “I mean, that thing was _killing_ you not too long ago!”

“And?”

And-

_And…_

Don’t say it.

Don’t _say_ it.

Don’t you _dare_ say it.

“And… _and…_ I don’t know, what if it still is?”

Damn it, _Emily!_ You had _one_ freaking job!

For a very, excruciatingly long time, Alex didn’t meet my eye. For an agonising eternity, he said nothing, didn’t move, didn’t seem to react at all. Which was… not what I expected. Certainly not from him, from that idea. He used to be so emotionally messed up, back in Haven, but he’s gotten weirdly quiet and calm since moving to Skyhold. Initially, I thought it was just him struggling to deal with the Conclave explosion and the sudden _chosen saviour from God_ thing. And it might’ve been. But I’m starting to get the feeling there’s something else at play here. I just can’t for the life of me work out what it is.

But I’ve got this _horrible_ feeling I’m about to find out.

“Ah,” he murmured after way too long. “You noticed.”

I- I _noticed?_ What? _What?_

That almost sounds like-

Like… like he already knew.

Oh no.

No, no, _no._

Tell me he didn’t.

Tell me he didn’t already know.

_Tell me this isn’t happening._

I blinked several times in utter shock. “No.”

“Em-”

“No. What? No. _No!”_

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t _real._

 _He’s_ not real.

“You’re not doing this. You’re not _allowed_ to do this!” I screamed at him. “You _knew?_ Since when did you _know?”_

He didn’t meet my eye. “It doesn’t matter.”

 _“Of course_ it matters!” I continued to screech at the top of my lungs. “You’re _dying-”_

“Can you _not_ scream that as loud as you possibly can?” he hissed, sharply cutting across me.

“Alex,” I ground out his name dangerously. “How. Did. You. _Know?”_

“Cassandra told me.”

“What? _Cassandra_ did?”

He rolled his eyes. “After the Conclave – after I woke up – she told me it was killing me. Because it was growing with the Breach.”

“You _sealed_ the Breach.”

“And yet the Anchor is _still here,”_ he pointed out bluntly, making a point of displaying his left hand to me. “Do you remember back then? It was pretty much just a line of light across my palm. Now it covers my entire hand. I guess… I don’t know. It was pretty clear I’m not safe.”

I winced. I noticed that too, back in the game. The start of an uneasy feeling that plagued my entire playthrough that I never paid any attention to because I was determined to ignore it. Then I got the end and killed Corypheus and no one was dead, and I thought we were going to be okay. Played through the first two DLCs and still thought it was okay.

But then Trespasser happened.

Then I had to start watching him struggle and fight and scream in pain and slowly die in front of me.

And now he’s real.

“You haven’t thought of removing it?” I suggested desperately, despite already knowing the answer.

“Short of cutting off my own hand, I don’t think there _is_ a way to get rid of it,” he pointed out. “If that even worked, which I’m pretty sure it won’t. Besides, I can’t. There are still countless Fade rifts out there and I’m the only one who can close them.”

“You’re remarkably calm about this,” I noted quietly.

“I’ve had a long time to come to terms with it,” he replied dully, utterly resigned.

“That’s why you were such an emotional wreck back in Haven,” I murmured. “And- …oh. _Oh._ That’s why you won’t talk to Nathan either, isn’t it?”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at me. I didn’t need him to.

He’s just as scared of having that conversation as I was. Just as scared of facing up to that reality as I am. Just as scared of how everyone else is going to react. He’s scared and he’s doing everything he can to avoid it, even if it means he has to die without any resolution.

Classic avoidance.

And to think, there was a time when I wasn’t sure he was really _my_ Inquisitor. He’s so like me. He’s _painfully_ similar to me.

“Shit.”

It was all I managed to say. There was nothing else I _could_ say.

“I’m okay,” he assured me quietly.

“Are you _really,_ though?”

“Like I said,” he began, “I’ve had a long time to come to terms with it.”

“But you never _told_ anyone?” I demanded. “You’re just going to keep going and pretend everything’s fine and just silently wait to die?”

“What other choice do I _have?”_ he shot back. “We’re in the middle of a _war.”_

“And you’re a pretty damn important person in that war,” I argued. “If you told someone, they might… I don’t know. We could figure out a way to save you.”

He smiled – but it was one of those sad half-smiles that are nothing if not emotionally devastating. “I don’t think there _is_ a way to save me.”

“Have you tried _looking?”_

“You honestly think I haven’t?” he asked a little incredulously. “The world takes priority. I don’t want people being distracted trying to look for something that isn’t there.”

“Alright, _Tidus.”_

He pulled back in confusion. “What?”

“I-” I began, only to remember that I was referencing _Final Fantasy_ in a conversation with a protagonist of _Dragon Age._ “Forget it. Some other person you remind me of.”

Argh, why am I even having this conversation? Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I _keep_ doing this to myself?

 _I think you’re clinging desperately to something you know you can’t have._ _And I think the only way out of this is to let go._

Damn you, Alex.

Damn you to the fiery pits of hell.

Don’t do this to me.


	29. The Shadow Always Follows

Skyhold seemed cold and empty after we got back.

Not literally, I mean. It was still just as loud, still just as crowded, still just as bright and still home to a bustling and cheerful community of people who felt like they were doing their part in saving the world and slowly pulling society back from the brink of oblivion. Nothing about it had changed, on that front. Honestly, nothing had changed on _any_ front. Life continued as it always had. There wasn’t anything wrong. Nothing that wasn’t already wrong, anyway. There were no new problems, only the thousand old ones that themselves were slowly being dealt with, one by one. There was still the same old air of light and hope and optimism; but it just didn’t seem to belong there anymore.

Because he knows.

Because he’s always known, and somehow, I didn’t see it.

He’s a better actor than I give him credit for. He’s better at a lot of things than I give him credit for.

But still. He knows.

_He knows._

He’s _always_ known.

“Hey,” the familiar voice of Nell greeted me as she approached the parapet I was leaning on, while absently staring out into the distance. “You’re back.”

I didn’t look back at her. “I am, yeah. Probably not for long, though.”

She nodded as she came to a halt next to me. “Harlan said scouts were sent out west. You sure you can handle a desert?”

I rolled my shoulders back. “I imagine we’ll be spending a few good weeks in the Dales first. And besides, I used to _live_ in a desert. I think I’ve got the Western Approach handled.”

Hot weather, relentless sun, and sand is probably the least of my problems right now, regardless. I mean, I’m so pathetically pale I pretty much burn the instant sunlight gets anywhere near me, and that’s something of a concern in the desert, but that really doesn’t matter a whole lot in comparison with the all too real and painful knowledge that people are dying and I am not mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with that as a reality.

Because he knows.

He _knows._

_He fucking knows._

Besides, I’m not in a position where I’ll willingly turn down time I could be spending with Alex. Not after what happened in Crestwood. Not when I know what I know. Not when I’m the only other person aside from Alex himself who knows it.

I can’t believe his plan to just die quietly in a corner without telling anyone. That’s such a shit plan. That is actually the _shittest_ plan. That’s just the worst plan I’ve ever heard and he knows, he knows what’s happening, he’s painfully aware of everything going on and he _knows._

I don’t know what I expected out of that conversation, but it sure as hell wasn’t the world ending revelation that none of it was a revelation to Alex in any way.

Because.

He.

_Knows._

Nell seemed surprised by my comment, quickly looking me over with wide, incredulous, and generally disbelieving eyes. “You lived in a desert? _You?”_

I folded my arms, trying not to be too affronted by her tone while simultaneously resisting the almost overwhelming urge to facepalm. Shouldn’t have said that. Should _not_ have _said that._

“I- uh… yeah? Kind of? I guess? Maybe?” I mumbled, not sure how exactly I planned to dig myself out of that one. “It’s sort of complicated.”

Nell’s eyebrows rose, and she honestly seemed kind of impressed. I immediately turned away from her, desperate for this conversation to either change topics or be over. I wasn’t feeling particularly picky about which. I just didn’t want to have to talk about it. For more reasons than just the obvious _explaining the real world to people from Dragon Age_ thing.

It was a weird year for me. Not to mention, it’s something I haven’t even told Alex about.

Alex.

Alexander Trevelyan, who is dying a little more with every passing day and _knows it’s happening_ and oh my god, what the actual _fuck-_

“I- I should find Alex,” I managed in a mostly coherent rush of words, quickly turning on my heels to look back at the rest of Skyhold as Nell watched me like I was crazy. “I mean, His Worship. His Worship Lord Inquisitor Alexander Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste.”

Nell incredulous look didn’t change as she continued to question my sanity, but I couldn’t help a small smile at the knowledge that Alex would _hate_ me using all his many titles. I’ve already heard him rant about it being too long and frivolous a few times now. I see him wince all the time whenever he seems to gain a new one. Seems to take all his self-control not to magically blast people into walls every time it comes up.

Because _I’m not even a lord,_ and _mages aren’t supposed to have titles,_ and _no one knows if that was actually Andraste,_ and _I’m just the third son of a bann,_ and _everyone’s taking this way too far,_ and _did you all suddenly forget that I’m a damn mage,_ and _I was made Inquisitor out of necessity not because of divine right,_ and _I am actually the worst Andrastian out there._

I’d probably find it funny if I wasn’t so goddamn depressed.

“He was having a heated argument with Sister Nightingale, last I saw him,” Nell supplied dully, pulling me back into reality.

I blinked in surprise. “What, seriously? _Alex_ was?”

The hell do they have to fight about?

Nell shrugged. “It’s not the first time he’s had a disagreement with the spymaster. She’s far more pragmatic than he is.”

She says it like being more pragmatic than Alex is some kind of achievement. I mean, okay, he can make hard decisions when he needs to, but the fact is, if he _can_ save everyone, he usually _will._ He’ll reliably pick keeping his people safe over gaining an advantage. Leliana… well, you know. She’s had a character arc since Origins, and not necessarily a positive one.

I try not to judge her for that. Normally I really like that kind of character progression. But super-stabby-murder-kill-kill-Inquisition-Leliana terrifies me. Maybe that’s the point.

“Probably a good thing he calls the shots, then,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Not that he’ll be around to do that for much longer.

And now we’re back to that old chestnut.

Nell let out a long, strangely content sigh. “Never thought I’d be happy about a mage having more authority on what the Maker’s will is than the Left Hand of the Divine.”

“What crazy times we live in,” I added dryly.

Times that I know will only get crazier.

I shivered slightly and tried my utmost not to immediately flinch away when I felt Nell place a hand on my shoulder in what I guess was supposed to be a comforting gesture.

“You take care, Emilia.”

I nodded stiffly at her and watched on wordlessly as she turned and made her way to the steps that led down off the battlements and into the interior of the absurdly massive mountain fortress the Inquisition called home. There wasn’t really much else I could do. There was certainly nothing I could say. In any case, when she left, all I felt was a wave of sheer relief wash over me.

Because really, all I wanted at that point was to be left alone.

Because he’s dying. Because that’s something I can’t escape anymore. Because he knows what’s going on and somehow that’s even worse. Because he’s my best friend and I don’t know how to exist here without him. I don’t want to face the possibility that I might have to.

Once again, I leaned heavily on the battlements, my stomach flattening against the stone of the crenel as the sheer mountain drop that would be undeniably lethal came into view.

I could just let myself fall.

On one hand, I’d just respawn or whatever like I did back in Haven. And even if I didn’t, even if that was a one time use only ability, maybe killing myself here is how I get back to my real life. And if it isn’t, at least then I’ll be dead, and I won’t have to deal with this bullshit anymore.

I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want to deal with anything. I can’t. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Nothing does.

For a moment, I really did consider it. For one brief, fleeting moment, my feet lifted off the ground as I prepared to overbalance and tumble over the battlements and into the deep icy ravine below. Just to see what it was like to die in that way. Just to see if it would make a difference.

With an exhausted sigh, I pulled back, straightened, and moved away.

I don’t know.

I don’t know anymore.


	30. I Simply Am Not There

There was nothing say after that. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go, other than along with the story of the game, watching on from the front lines as things I’d played a thousand times before unfolded right there, in front of me. I was there, right in the middle of it, and yet, nothing quite seemed to register. It didn’t feel real anymore. Maybe it never was. Maybe this isn’t me disassociating, it’s just my idiot emotional brain realising what my rational one has been screaming all along.

It’s not real.

It’s not really there.

 _I’m_ not really there.

Repairs to Skyhold were ongoing. Something told me they’d be ongoing for a while yet; the keep was in pretty bad shape when we stumbled across it. It looked like back-breaking work, but I never heard anyone complain. Just happy to be alive and somewhere kind of safe, I guess. It was kind of a pity Alex was never around to see the fortifications slowly return to their former glory. But that wasn’t really anything beyond normal. Alex was busy. He had a job to do, and it had a habit of taking him halfway across Orlais. And I’d rather him be busy and miss a few things than dead and miss everything.

As for me? I spent most of my time in the barracks drinking or playing cards with Nell and Harlan, or I was taking my watch somewhere on the castle battlements, or I was trying to train, in the vain hope that one day I’ll eventually be able to call myself a halfway competent swordsman.

Things would be easier if I was home.

Things would be easier if I actually _wanted_ to go home.

Things would be _so much goddamn easier_ if I wasn’t so hopelessly attached to my own Inquisitor that I sit at a window pining for him when he’s not here and following him everywhere like a pathetically clingy lost puppy when he _is_ around.

But never saying anything.

Because there is nothing to say.

And I’m not really here.

“Hey.”

I flinched a little at the sound of his voice, but kept my eyes firmly on the mountains directly in front of me, trying my hardest not give any visible reaction to him.

The one day I manage to leave him alone, and he comes and seeks me out? On purpose? Why the _hell_ is that happening?

I didn’t move as Alex slowly made his way over to me, gently leaning himself on the parapet just like I was, a little uncomfortably close. He exhaled softly and quickly joined me in staring absently out into space. I don’t know what he was trying to do. I don’t know what he was trying to achieve.

And then, very abruptly;

“How old are you?”

I jumped almost violently backwards in surprise at the sudden question, blinking several times as I tried to reassert reality before giving him a pointed look at I hope got across how insane I thought he was being all of a sudden.

Alex, seeing my reaction, shifted a little awkwardly. “Sorry, I could’ve asked that more tactfully. I just… I suddenly realised that I don’t know anything about you.”

My brow creased. “You know I’m from somewhere else. What else is there to know?”

“A lot, I’m realising,” he replied, still patiently waiting for me to answer his initial question.

There is just no reality in which I get away with silence, is there?

I fought the almost overwhelming urge to groan. No point in lying. Not now. Not when he already knows all the things worth keeping secret.

“I’m twenty-one,” I answered slowly, after a bit of a pause. “Or I’m twenty-two. How many months has it been? I don’t know. Go with twenty-one.”

He nodded at that, but didn’t hide the mild confusion in his expression. “Really? I would’ve guessed a bit younger.”

“…are you saying I have a baby face, or that I’m too immature to be in my twenties?”

He shrugged. “Just going by your inexperience, I guess. I’m not really one to talk, though. What about your family?”

“My what?” I asked, taken aback by the abrupt change of topic.

“Your parents? Are they alive? Where are they?”

_That’s personal._

I tensed a little. “They’re alive. They just don’t live with me.”

“Siblings?”

“It’s just the one sibling.”

“Brother or sister?”

“Sister. One single older sister.”

“What’s she like?”

_Yeah, still personal._

I shrugged. “Chloe? She works a lot. She works because I can’t. She’s basically designated herself my parent because our actual parents aren’t around.”

“Why aren’t they around?” he asked, his voice now with a distinct hard edge to it.

_That’s really quite personal._

 “They didn’t _abandon_ us, or whatever you’re thinking,” I began a little hotly. “My dad got a job in… ah, somewhere _very_ far away and _very_ remote. They moved out there. Chloe stayed behind in the family house because she has her own life and can look after herself.”

“And you?”

_That’s really fucking personal!_

“I went with them,” I told him, my hands clenching into tight fists at the memory. “At first. Then I got depressed and stopped eating and lost a frankly absurd amount of weight and everyone decided it’d be better if I moved back home, with my sister. You know. Before I accidentally killed myself.”

And it’s so. Damn. _Personal._

“But anyway!” I all but screamed, pushing myself away from the parapet and trying to regulate my breathing somewhat before I fainted from all the hyperventilating I was doing. _“Anyway._ Short version is that I ruined my sister’s life and complicated everything for my family because I’m a _fucking retard_ and I can’t deal with my stupid emotional issues and I play way too many video games in an effort to forget I exist and it’s _not important-”_

Before I could do anything else, before I could get even another word out, I felt arms wrap around me and draw me in. Before so much as another thought managed to enter my brain, I was slammed unceremoniously against Alex’s _rock hard abs_ which I keep forgetting _he totally has_ and held there by a tight embrace.

“Hey,” he called gently, still holding me tight. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I breathed.

Or tried to, at least. He’s pretty bloody strong.

“What is this?” I asked, carefully weaselling myself out of his grasp.

He let me go, but his brow creased in confusion at my question. “What?”

“What are you doing? Why are you suddenly asking all these questions? Are you trying to make sure you get to know me properly before you die?”

“Not everything is about me dying, Emily,” he said with a sigh, not looking back at me even as I stiffened at his use of my real name. “But I want to help. I can’t do that if I barely know you.”

“And you suddenly came to this conclusion of not knowing me because you realised you didn’t know my age?”

“That… about sums it up, yeah.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “You’re a good egg, Alexander Trevelyan.”

His confused expression didn’t change, which probably meant he didn’t understand the phrase. “I’m going to assume that’s not an insult.”

“It means you’re a _good person.”_

“So why not just _say_ that?”

 _“Jesus Christ._ Alex, just let me have my idioms.”

“You say that a lot, too.”

I blinked. “Huh? What?”

“Jesus Christ?”

Oh man. Tell me I’m not really having this conversation right now. Tell me I’m not about to attempt to explain Christianity to an Andrastian. Tell me that is not a thing that is happening right now.

“Oh… right. That- uh, yeah. That’s, um… you know how people use Andraste’s name to swear? It’s like that. Kind of. Different religious figure.”

“Oh.”

“Anything else you wanted to interrogate me over?”

Alex, bizarrely enough, positively _brightened_ at the question.

I winced.

 _That_ can’t be good.

“I might have a small list,” he admitted.

I let out a long, exhausted groan and slapped my palm to my forehead, trying to brace myself for the oncoming assault of what was probably going to be _all the personal questions, oh my god, how did questions suddenly get so personal._ But I guess it’s only fair. Not like I haven’t done this to him every day since we met, almost.

So, I rolled my shoulders back, exhaling softly.

“Okay,” I said. “Fire away.”


	31. The Great Void In Your Soul

The Western Approach was indeed the depressing shithole it looked like in the game – a sea of sand stretching as far as the eye could see; withered, dead looking plants scatted about the place, and clear blue skies with no barrier between me and relentless and oppressive heat of the sun. Flies bombarded us constantly. Sand got everywhere, even in nooks and crevices people didn’t even know they had. Scavenger birds rode huge thermal columns of hot air above us, soaring in lazy circles, waiting for something, someone, didn’t really matter, to collapse on the ground below.

Nothing quite like the omnipresence of vultures to make you really appreciate being alive.

I kicked up some of the dust at my feet, curling my lip in displeasure at it. We were camped out in a shady area tucked beneath a rocky overhang, trapped here as it quickly passed the time of day where it was cool enough to be out and about. Now, everyone was relegated to camp, because of the risk of overexposure and heat stroke became too much.

More than once, I’d asked Alex if he could whip up a magical blizzard to negate that problem. And more than once, he had looked at me like I was completely insane before retorting that he couldn’t possibly keep up a spell of that magnitude for that long, and even if he _could,_ it would be confined to a specific area, and hence be useless for travel.

I didn’t know if he was irritable because of the heat or the fact that he knows he’s dying, but at this point, it could honestly be either. Maybe it’s both. It could just as easily be both.

Whatever it was, he was over it after a couple of days. I couldn’t say as much for me.

I hate this.

I hate how familiar it is. I keep half expecting to round a corner and find those same shacks, find those same kids running around, those same half-feral dogs digging through trash. And every time I remember it, all I feel is the same old surge of utmost respect for the people who live there, who are so willing to stay out there their entire lives, because it’s their land. Because it belongs to them, and they won’t let anyone take that away.

I felt like an intruder there, and I still feel like one here.

Deserts don’t change. And the fictional ones just aren’t as pretty.

I let out what could only be described as a small enraged scream and began to flail my arms around wildly in some desperate last-ditch attempt at warding off the flies that were _plaguing my face_ because apparently every single insect on this entire _fucking fictional continent_ had decided they had nothing better to do than come here, right here, and harass me, _specifically me,_ persistently until the end of time.

I hate flies.

I _hate_ them.

I hate flies and I hate heat and I hate sand and this whole disaster of a situation is bringing up _too many memories_ of everything I wanted to forget forever and I don’t want to bag on the whole thing because I know I should be grateful for the experiences I had and I _am_ grateful for them, but that’s just it, I’m grateful for the experience and the memories, but I want them to stay _memories._

It wasn’t a good year for me. _Alex knows that._ He’s asked me too many questions about it to _not_ know that.

And these flies, they’re on me, they won’t leave me alone, they’re hovering too close to my eyes, they’re buzzing by my ears, _they’re crawling on my face_ and I _can’t-_

My internal rage was interrupted by a small little _puff_ as something bright flashed right before my eyes. I blinked several times, frozen in mid-freak-out, suddenly all too aware that the flies that had been crawling all over me and driving me completely insane were now decidedly absent, small wisps of smoke trailing through the air from where a few of the flies had abruptly spontaneously combusted.

“Hey Emilia,” the all too familiar voice Alexander Trevelyan called from behind.

I whirled around, so close to biting a string of violent curses at him for just _being there,_ but held them back.

Barely.

But I did hold them back.

I just want everyone to know how nearly overwhelming the urge to hurl insults at everyone was, so they’re all sufficiently impressed when I say I didn’t do that.

And the fact that I didn’t immediately burst into tears, because I _really_ wanted to do that, too. Like, wow. _So_ much.

 _Yes,_ all this over some flies.

And _yes,_ I _know_ how irrational that is.

“You alright?”

Simple question.

Simple question, should have a simple answer. Yes or no. Easy. Straightforward. _Utterly impossible._

Because in that moment, my brain just, seized up. Things didn’t compute anymore, maybe on purpose. Because I’ve been here before. I know what happens.

And that can’t happen.

Because I want Alex to like me.

Because I _can’t_ devolve into a crying, screaming mess of tears right now. Not here, not in front of him.

Don’t.

Don’t do this.

Calm down.

Breathe.

Breathe and calm down and just. _Breathe._

“I’m… uh… I’m- I’m not good,” I managed to choke out in strangled voice. “No good. Bad. Very bad.”

Am I doing this? Am I _seriously_ doing this right now? Over _flies?_

That’s so irrational! That’s childish and it’s _stupid_ and makes no _fucking sense!_

_It’s never just a sandwich._

I winced at the thought.

“Don’t touch me,” I barked out in a warning tone, the second I saw Alex move in to give me a hug.

He stopped dead in his tracks, holding his hands up as if to show a wild animal that he meant no harm. In that moment, I flinched back, so acutely aware of how close I was to either violently exploding, or completely shutting down.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, concern all over his tone now.

_Please don’t ask me that._

“I-” I began, cutting off abruptly as I realised I had nothing to say, no answer to that question, or any other. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

I don’t want you to see me like this.

I want you to like me.

Because that matters. It matters so much more than I think it should. It always has. I want people to like me. I want to have friends. I want to feel like I _deserve_ friends. I want to be someone, _anyone,_ who isn’t me.

Tears had long since welled up and began spilling uncontrollably down my cheeks, but I somehow hadn’t registered them until now. Not until now, when my breath hitched in my throat and I found myself sobbing pathetically and falling into a heap in the dust that I hate so much because all it does, all it’s ever done, is remind me of how I was at my lowest.

It wasn’t a good year for me. It wasn’t a good year for _anyone._ And I know that’s mostly because I felt terrible, and I went out of my way to make sure everyone around me felt the same.

All the abuse I screamed and all the emotional manipulation and all the terrible things I said to the people I care most about, all the crying and screaming and swearing and the too loud threats of self-harm in the middle of airports because if I couldn’t happy, then _no one_ could be. That’s what sand reminds me of. That’s what deserts mean to me.

Maybe I’ve matured since then. Maybe I’ve apologised a million times, and been forgiven a million times. Maybe I’ve grown. Maybe I’ve gotten better. Maybe, one day, I won’t feel like the worthless burden of a person I know I am.

So, I cried.

I just cried.

Ugly crying, screaming sobs, rivers of tears and snot running down my face as my hand repeatedly collided with my head because in that moment, I didn’t know how to do anything else.

And it’s stupid. It’s _so_ stupid, it’s irrational and it’s childish and there’s nothing else for me to say.

It’s not an excuse.

I don’t have an excuse.

Just can’t hold it in anymore. Any of it. All the stress and fear and confusion of this insane situation, it all came crashing down, hitting me all at once like a battering ram, and all I could do in response was collapse there, utterly paralysed by my own fear and self-loathing, and cry.

_It’s never just a sandwich._

It’s never just the flies.

And it sucks.

Oh my god, it _sucks so much._

I don’t know how long it went for. I don’t know how long it took for me to finally come back to reality, to finally stop and breathe and calm down a little. To remember that Alex was standing there watching me, aghast and confused by my insane, completely nonsensical behaviour.

Can’t blame him, really.

“I’m okay,” I managed hoarsely as I coughed, pulling my knees to my chest and wishing I could die right then and there. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

I’m not okay.

“Are you sure?”

I closed my eyes and let out a soft, breathless, mildly hysterical chuckle in response to Alex’s quiet, hesitant question.

“No,” I gasped between frantic breaths for air. “But I’ll understand if you don’t want to hang around me anymore.”

No one does. Family only sticks around because they’re just that, _family._

Slowly, Alex eased himself down next to me. “You… uh, want to talk about it?”

What I _want_ is to die.

I shook my head fervently. “Not for a second.”

Partially to my surprise, but also not, Alex didn’t push it. He just sat himself down beside me and stared off into the distance, silent and contemplative.

“But I probably do owe you an explanation.”

He jerked back in surprise at that, clearly not expecting it. Again, I can’t really blame him. When I have been immediately forthcoming with something? When has he not had to yell and push and argue with me before I finally told him something important?

“Look, I’ve got- …problems,” I said shakily. “Problems I’m not totally comfortable admitting that I have.”

Am I ready to do this? Actually do this, right now?

Am I _seriously_ about to do this?

Since when have I done this? I don’t do this. I don’t just come out with this.

I’m not doing this. It doesn’t matter anyway. Why would he have _any_ idea what I’m talking about? Isn’t he a mage from medieval fantasy land? I’ll be totally wasting my time if I try to explain and I don’t want to even _begin_ trying to explain.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t want to admit to having problems I can’t fix. I don’t want to face the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong with me.

Meanwhile, Alex just watched me, waiting for clarification.

Damn it.

Damn _him._

“Jesus _Christ…_ you’re _seriously_ going to make me say it?”

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

“Look, I- I’m autistic, alright?” I had to stop myself from outright screaming at him, hating myself as heat flooded to my cheeks. “I’m _autistic._ And I know you don’t know what that means, but please don’t make me explain it because it’s complicated and humiliating and I don’t want to explain it.”

“Then _how_ is that supposed to mean _anything_ to me?”

“It doesn’t!” I hissed. “It doesn’t mean _anything._ It’s not a thing. It’s not even a thing, okay? Can we just go on from this moment like we never had this conversation? Just act like I never said that word. I am a totally normal and in control human being with no issues what so ever.”

“Why are you so scared?” he asked, not letting me drop the subject. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”

Because it’s you.

Because you’re my friend.

Because you’re my only friend and I can’t stand the thought of you seeing the worst parts of me.

Real or not. Fictional or not. Dying or not.

“It- it’s embarrassing,” I managed after too long, dragging my fingers through my hair while trying to keep my breathing low and steady. “I’m supposed to be at least kind of in control here, and I’m _not._ I’m just, not. I can’t manage my own goddamn emotions and I can’t stop myself from having a complete meltdown over _nothing_ and I can’t even hide it when it happens and it’s _humiliating.”_

And I want you to like me.

And I know you’ll never have a good opinion on me again after this.

And that thought _terrifies_ me.

“I’m scared people are going to see me act like this and they’re going to treat me like a child,” I said in a rush, letting it all spill out, because what is the use in keeping it to myself anymore? “I’m scared they’ll think I’m doing it on purpose. I’m scared anyone I admit this to is just going to tell me that I’m being irrational and need to grow up. I’m scared people are going to treat me as the poor victim of a terrible condition and act like that it’s somehow not quintessentially _part of me._ I’m scared because I know that to a lot of people, _autistic_ is all I’ll ever end up _being.”_

None of that was going to make any sense to him and I knew it, but I was long since past that point. All I could do was just get all my anxieties out and hope to God and all things holy he got the gist of it.

“It’s like there’s a race, and I have to run a marathon just to get to the starting line. And then everyone wonders why I can’t keep up,” I continued, my voice shaking as the tears threatened to make a comeback. “I’m _exhausted._ I’m exhausted and I’m stressed and I’m tired _all the time_ and I’m trying so _damn hard_ despite all of that and everywhere I turn, I’m being told it’s not enough.”

“It’s enough.”

I blinked several times in surprise at his decision to suddenly speak up since the beginning of my ranting.

“Emily, _listen to me,”_ he called, gripping my shoulders firmly and almost forcing me to meet his eyes. “It’s _enough._ What you’re doing is enough. _You_ are enough. I’m not for a second going to pretend I understand any of this, but you _are_ enough.”

I know he means well, and I want to believe what he’s saying is true, but I don’t feel like enough. Fact of the matter is, I _never_ feel like enough. I feel small and stupid and like I’m a burden on everyone around me and I want to crawl into a hole and die.

 “And if you want to talk about it, I’ll be here,” he added, pulling away from me and getting to his feet. “Trust me on that. Okay?”

I inhaled shakily. “…okay.”

A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Okay.”


End file.
